


King and Lionheart

by ellesmer_joe3



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Also Gentle Thorin, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Characters of Color... sort of, Dragon Sickness, Dunedain OCs, Eventual Romance, F/M, Grumpy Thorin, Siblingship, Slow Burn, Thorin Oakenshield Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 139,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellesmer_joe3/pseuds/ellesmer_joe3
Summary: As Rangers of the North, it is Fheon and Elijah's duty to protect the Free People. So when they come across a band of thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard camped at the borders of the Shire, they exercise the right of questioning them. Eventually, however, a certain dwarf will realize that the darkness in his past has found ways to entwine itself with another's in ways he had not come to expect.





	1. Prologue - Borders of the Shire I

**Author's Note:**

> The work title and lyrics are taken from the song "King and Lionheart" by Of Monsters and Men.
> 
> This very same story was published in Fanfiction.net in 2015, and has been finished there. I'm merely importing it here to broaden its prospects. This has, of course, been edited and improved, but please do forgive any errors I might have missed.
> 
> *Fheon is pronounced as Fee-yon.

 

> _His crown lit up the way as we moved slowly_   
>  _Past the wondering eyes of the ones that were left behind_   
>  _Though far away, though far away, though far away_   
>  _We're still the same, we're still the same, we're still the same_

GANDALF SCANNED the scene before him, with thirteen dwarves huddled around the fire, and a hobbit leaning against a tree, doing his best to keep track of the conversation. Gandalf’s eyes settled on the Dwarf King, who sat between his nephews and had been silent for a good part of the evening.

“Thorin,” the wizard called, catching the attention of the dwarf. “Since my dear friend Bilbo has never exactly heard the entire story, would you so kindly elaborate on the cause of this particular venture?” Thorin, ever the pessimist, looked away and said nothing. “He is a part of the Company now, Thorin. I would think that he deserves to know.”

Finally, the King Under the Mountain, not having much cause to deny, faced the Company again and clasped his hands in front of him.

“It began long ago,” he started slowly, “in a land far away to the east. There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of vine and vale, peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth: Erebor. Stronghold of Thror, King Under the Mountain, Mightiest of the Dwarf Lords. Thror ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson.” He pounded his chest, a slight smile actually inching up his mouth. The Company chortled silently.

“Erebor... its beauty cannot compare to anything else. It was made for legends. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock, and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of dwarves is unequaled, fashioning objects of great beauty, out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever they delved deeper, down into the dark. And that is where they found it. The Heart of the Mountain. The Arkenstone.” The dwarves—who already knew the story and were gritting out the painful memories—shifted in their seats uneasily. “Thror named it ‘The King's Jewel’. He took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the Elven king, Thranduil.

“But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly, the days turned sour, and the watchful nights closed in. My grandfather's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him.” Thorin shook his head. “Know this—that it is incredibly difficult to overpower a sickness of the mind. My father and I tried to help him, but Thror would not listen. And when sickness thrives, bad things will follow.”

From the corner of his eye, Gandalf noticed Bilbo walk closer, enraptured.

“The first we heard was a noise like a hurricane, coming down from the North. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind,” said Thorin, looking to the dwarf Balin, who sat across from him. “We tried to warn the kingdom but... He was a firedrake from the North. Smaug had come. The horns were blown. It was chaos everywhere. Strong fire from the dragon's maw destroyed the towers of Dale, turning the city red. Such wanton death was dealt that day, for this city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another prize, for dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire.”

His voice dropped. “You must understand, a dragon's hide is nearly impossible to pierce,” he said, grimacing as he did so. “Our spears did nothing. Smaug entered the Mountain in flame and ruin. I knew where my grandfather would go, to his treasure room. And I found him there, reaching for the Arkenstone that had fallen into the sea of gold. He and my father would have been burned by dragonfire if I had not pulled them out of the mountain in time. Erebor was lost. For a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives.”

A scowl made its way onto his face. “Thranduil is a coward,” he spat in contempt. “He stood on the mountainside, an entire army with him, yet he did not come to our aid. He walked away, leaving us to wander the wilderness with no home. I took work where I could find it, laboring in the villages of Men. But I have not forgotten what happened in Erebor that day, the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright. A city turned to ash.”

Thorin ended his story with a disturbing image, but Gandalf supposed he could not think of anything else.

Then, the wizard heard something rustling above them—very soft, barely hearable, but he discerned it from the chirping creatures that surrounded them on the ground. _This_ noise came from one of the trees behind and above him. Bilbo opened his mouth to say something, perhaps his condolences, but someone else beat him to it:

“I must say, that was a _wonderful_ story. Have you got any more?”

Yet this voice came from no one in their Company. The dwarves shot to their feet, as did Gandalf, their eyes trained on the figure that was too obscured behind tree leaves before, yet now was illuminated enough to be seen crouching on a tree branch just a little ways away from their Company circle.

* * *

It was a night like any other night; which was, to say, dark, eerie, and filled with the noises of creatures that were, in a sense, of no danger. For it was only the wood near The Shire, and it was always very peaceful… save for the occasional Orc attack.

They were village-raiders, and they probably thought The Shire was not being defended by four Dunedain Rangers. But these hours of scouting were the only few Fheon ever had to be alone with her brother. Back at the camp, they were together, but never truly so—they had two other Rangers with them. No privacy.

Now Elijah walked alongside her in the faint darkness. The trees around them loomed like towers, with branches thick enough to climb. It was a cold night, though Fheon and her brother wore thick, green cloaks given to them by the Dunedain. However, the cloaks had been in their possession for more than ten years and so they were, theoretically, theirs in all aspects; as were the two bows and quiver of arrows on their backs, along with the sword on Elijah and the long dagger on Fheon.

They neared the site, in which the border of the Shire circled back to Hobbiton. Fheon, opting to just scan the juncture with her trained eyes, was the first to turn back. Elijah took longer than her but did the same after a mere few seconds.

As they were walking back to their camp, he said, “You’re getting taller.”

Fheon, knowing that her shorter-than-average height had been a running joke for him, punched his arm. “Do be quiet,” she said, smiling slightly.

“I’m serious!”

“No, you’re not.”

“Honestly, you’ve reached my shoulders now. Perhaps next month you’ll be up to my neck!”

Fheon hit him again, harder than the previous one, and this time Elijah lapsed into an amused silence. They trekked on wordlessly, occasionally exchanging glances but never saying anything. Perhaps tonight was one of those nights in which neither of them was feeling particularly wordy. It was an hour in, halfway back to the starting point of the border, when Fheon smelled something off.

Her arm shot out, stopping Elijah in his tracks. She sniffed again, and the scent was unmistakable. “Do you smell that?” she inquired. Her brother tilted his chin upwards, inhaling the air like a dog. Fheon supposed he was joking around again, but his smirk disappeared when the realization weighed in.

“Smoke,” he said.

They scanned the night sky, squinting to be able to perceive anything past the thick tree leaves. Fheon walked forward, straying from their usual path, and came to stand beneath a wide juncture between four trees, a clearing of sorts, so she could skim through the sky more easily. She noticed something north of them, looking to be far off from the border but definitely near enough to cause suspicion. It was a smoke trail.

Fheon waved Elijah over and, as soon as he saw, he murmured, “Hobbits don’t camp out, do they?”

“It would pose an interesting question as to whether they’ve decided to change their lifestyle, yes.”

“We should see what that is.”

She nodded. “Deal with it if it is a threat. If it is not, report back to the camp.”

Elijah scoffed. “Oh, don’t act as if you aren’t coming with me, because you are. One is alone, but two is company! And besides, what if it _is_ a threat?” He frowned down at her. “You wouldn’t leave me to be killed out there, would you?”

She rolled her eyes at the look on his face, but slipped her bow off her back anyway and started towards the smoke. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she muttered, making Elijah chuckle.

They soon fell into a cautious muteness, however, for they had rarely ventured so far into the woods, and even though their friends back at camp had stated there was nothing to worry about, it was better to be prepared. Slowly, the smoke trail came to ascend just above their noses, and the towering trees soon parted to reveal a gleaming campfire. And huddled around this campfire was perhaps the strangest variety of beings Fheon had ever laid eyes on.

Nevertheless, she and Elijah sprung to hide behind two thick, adjacent trees. Seeing as the group in front of them were dwarves, there was a slight possibility that they would not take too kindly to seeing Rangers barging in on them. Elijah gave Fheon a sideways glance and, by unspoken agreement, they began climbing their given trees.

Fheon was small and light, and therefore she seldom had to worry about making much sound; however, Elijah was taller than her, with a lithe build, but no doubt heavier. Fheon waited anxiously for him to reach the thicker branches, crouched atop her own tree and switching her gaze to the group beneath her to her brother. One of the dwarves was speaking.

“…years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly, the days turned sour, and the watchful nights closed in. My grandfather's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. Know this—that it is incredibly difficult to overpower a sickness of the mind. My father and I tried to help him, but Thror would not listen. And when sickness thrives, bad things will follow.”

Elijah finally perched on a branch, looking to Fheon and throwing her a bright smile. Fheon returned it half-heartedly, silently grateful that the tree he had found had a trunk thick enough to hide his body. Meanwhile, the unnamed dwarf continued, and she allowed herself to listen. Perhaps they would learn something.

“The first we heard was a noise like a hurricane, coming down from the North. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. We tried to warn the kingdom but... He was a firedrake from the North. Smaug had come. The horns were blown. It was chaos everywhere. Strong fire from the dragon's maw destroyed the towers of Dale, turning the city red. Such wanton death was dealt that day, for this city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another prize, for dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire.”

_A dragon?_ Fheon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Was this a mere story or a telling of the past? The name _Dale_ sounded familiar, but not enough for her to pull anything out of her head. Yet the word _dragon_ she was more aware of. Her and Elijah’s grandmother used to tell them stories of her homeland, where there was not one dragon, but _three_. She shared a look with her brother, sending him the message that they would listen and stay isolated… for now.

“…a dragon's hide is nearly impossible to pierce. Our spears did nothing. Smaug entered the Mountain in flame and ruin. I knew where my grandfather would go, to his treasure room. And I found him there, reaching for the Arkenstone that had fallen into the sea of gold. He and my father would have been burned by dragonfire if I had not pulled them out of the Mountain in time. Erebor was lost. For a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives.”

She noticed something flash across Elijah’s face, but in the darkness, she could not discern what it was. He covered it quickly.

“Thranduil is a coward.”

The recognition was clear on his expression now, and even on Fheon’s. They knew who Thranduil was, the great Elven king of Mirkwood. The Dunedain heard stories of him through Elrond, and the words would somehow find their way to even the most out-of-the-way Dunedain station that was in the borders of the Shire.

“He stood on the mountainside, an entire army with him, yet he did not come to our aid. He walked away, leaving us to wander the wilderness with no home. I took work where I could find it, laboring in the villages of Men. But I have not forgotten what happened in Erebor that day, the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright. A city turned to ash.”

The way he said it made Fheon doubt that this was merely a fairytale told for the sake of a campfire. Slowly, she slipped her bow over her shoulders once more. Elijah moved to do the same, but the string of his bow caught onto a thin branch just above his head, making it rustle. It might not have been much for any other person, but the sound was like the bark of a dog considering how silent everything else was.

Elijah winced. Fheon’s heartbeat quickened. She was about to equip her bow again, seeing how one of the dwarves (wearing a pointed hat, oddly enough) was staring at Elijah’s presumed position with suspicious eyes, when her brother called down at them.

“I must say, that was a _wonderful_ story,” he jeered. “Have you got any more?”

Fheon should have expected such from her brother. She sighed heavily, rolling her eyes, but was slightly relieved when none of the dwarves reached for their weapons. They only stood, looking up at Elijah, who did not attempt to hide himself anymore. She gathered that none of them had seen her yet, and she leaned deeper into the base of the tree, where the leaves were thickest.

She waited for Elijah’s next act, scowling when he jumped down from his tree and into the clearing with the dwarves.

The dwarf dressed in gray with the pointed hat turned out to not be a dwarf at all. He towered over the rest of them like a horse to a dog. Fheon eyed the staff in his hand, and then his face, and then remembered where she had seen him before. “And why has a Dunedain Ranger decided to grace us with his presence?” he asked.

“Because fourteen dwarves and a wizard are not natural,” Elijah countered nonchalantly. “Not natural to be seen by the borders of the Shire, anyway—”

“Thirteen,” Gandalf interrupted.

“Sorry?”

“Thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a—”

“Hobbit,” a new, smaller voice cut in.

Fheon searched for his face amidst the throng of dwarves and found him. He was not noticeably smaller than the dwarves, only two were taller than all of them, and that was Gandalf and the dwarf who had been storytelling before. Fheon had never seen the hobbit’s face before; he had never even ventured out of Hobbiton to pick flowers or something of the sort. This must have been his first journey outside the town. But if so, why had he decided to journey with dwarves in the first place?

An interested tenor crept into Elijah’s words. “Thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit,” he repeated, before calling, “Fheon, would you come down here for a moment, please?”

Fheon sighed in exasperation and pulled the hood of her cloak on, so as to hide her dark braided hair. She jumped down and landed on the ground with a soft crunch, before taking a few steps forward to stand beside her brother. The tall dwarf, who had been storytelling, smirked.

The smug tone was apparent in his gruff voice. “What a small friend you have there.”

Beside her, she heard Elijah chuckling to himself. Fheon raised her head to look at the dwarf and softly retorted, “You’re one to talk.”

He looked taken aback. “A _girl_ Ranger? I did not know that was allowed.”

“Watch yourself,” Elijah cut in, a slight snap in his words. “This is Fheon.” And Fheon, not being one to prolong formalities, pushed her hood back unhappily, revealing her copper-toned face to all.

One of the dwarves stepped up, frowning. “Isn’t that a boy’s name—?”

“Can you please stop teasing my sister?” said Elijah, sounding impatient now. “She doesn’t quite like it when people mock her name, or her height. She’ll show you a thing or two about the benefits of being small and it’s not the fun kind of showing—”

“Elijah,” Fheon interrupted, glaring at him fitfully.

He threw her an apologetic look before returning his attention to the group. “If you’d just tell us your reason for having a hobbit with you, and for being so _many_ —with a wizard, no less—then we’ll leave you be, no further questions asked.”

“We were here to make a business transaction,” a hatted dwarf replied, “Namely, to pick up our burglar.”

“Burglar?” said Elijah, surprised. “You’re going to steal something, then?”

“Well I wouldn’t call it stealing, per say. We’re reclaiming what is rightfully ours! The kingdom of—” He halted abruptly when the tall dwarf elbowed his side.

“It is none of your business,” he finished threateningly.

Fheon bit the inside of her cheek and resisted the urge to snap. “It’s actually very much so our business, considering a hobbit is with you. It is our duty to protect the Free People, and the hobbits are a Free People.”

“He signed a contract agreeing that whatever happened to him would be left without grudge and without blame.”

“Why would anything happen to him?”

She felt her brother’s hand grip her arm and allowed herself to be pulled away. Catching his disapproving glare, she bit the inside of her cheek as Elijah attempted to calm things down. “I think we can all agree that we got off on the wrong foot here,” he said. “Let’s start over. I’m Elijah, this is my sister Fheon. And you company of lovely dwarves and a hobbit, are?”

Fheon raised her head as the enumeration began.

“Nori,” said a dwarf with brown hair styled up to three points.

“Dori,” said a dwarf with a white beard braided so that it didn’t look like a beard at all.

“Ori,” said a seemingly young dwarf with cropped orange hair.

“Bofur,” said the hatted dwarf Fheon had been speaking with before.

“Bombur,” said a wide dwarf with most of his beard braided into a loop across his chest; a dwarf with salt-and-pepper hair and with what looked to be an axe embedded in his forehead gestured to himself; (Bombur explained that his name was Bifur, but that he was rendered unable to speak because of the axe in his head.)

“Fili,” a young blond dwarf said—which was followed by a dark-haired dwarf’s, “and Kili.”

“Gloin,” said a dwarf with the thickest red beard.

“Oin,” said a dwarf with a fancy, greying beard.

“Dwalin,” said a burly dwarf with a bald head and dark beard.

“Balin,” said a dwarf with white hair and kind eyes.

The introductions had finished the circle, now, and it was time for the prideful tall dwarf to speak. Fheon did not remove her eyes from his face as he caved in to Gandalf’s expectant gaze and said, “Thorin.”

Hearing this, Elijah turned his head to look at the hobbit. “And you are?”

“Bilbo,” the hobbit muttered. “Bilbo Baggins.”

“You’ve willingly joined this band of dwarves, then?” Fheon asked, to which he answered with an affirmative. Pursing her lips, she turned around, about to leave when a booming voice stopped her.

“And I am Gandalf,” the wizard said, finishing the circle completely. “A wizard, yes, but a chaperone of sorts to this company as well.”

“Lovely,” Elijah replied. “Well, that’s all we wanted anyway, now that the hobbit’s confessed to really signing a contract, as Thorin said. We’d best be off now—”

“I have heard of you, Elijah and Fheon,” Gandalf interrupted, causing Fheon to face him once again. “The orphans rescued from Evendim, placed under the training and watchful eyes of the Dunedain.” She froze.

Recognition flashed across Bilbo’s face, and he said, “Evendim? That’s not very far from here.”

“It’s not,” said Elijah. “I was not aware we had a reputation.”

“Oh, well, for you, not so much,” said Gandalf. “But your sister—she is the one of the few female Rangers in history.”

Fheon had her jaw set as she said, “Rangers protect the Free People. We were homeless, and so they took us in. We had no reason to complain.” When she raised her eyes to look at the wizard, he was humming thoughtfully.

“Protect the Free People then,” he replied. “Come with us, as our scouts.”

“We will take you as far as the borders of Bree,” Elijah said. “Afterwards, you are on your own.”

Gandalf clicked his tongue. “Oh no, Bree will not do.”

“Weathertop, then—”

“Erebor,” Gandalf concluded, “Past Rivendell, across the Misty Mountains, and through Mirkwood.”

_The story was real, then…_ Fheon would laughed if Gandalf’s expression was not deadly serious, and if Thorin was not giving him a hateful glare. “Fortunately,” she said uncertainly, “Rangers are not allowed to leave their posts—”

“They are if they are willing.” Gandalf raised an eyebrow, and she frowned.

“What makes you say we are willing?”

When his eyes flickered to the man in front of her, her stomach clenched. She stepped forward to find that Elijah was looking at the Grey Wizard rather seriously. Immediately, she pulled him aside so that they were not so illuminated by the dwarves’ campfire. “Are you mad?” she hissed.

“I’m not mad,” he replied in the same low voice she used. “I’m just thinking that perhaps we are better off _helping_ Free People instead of sitting doing nothing all day, watching over a town that already has two extra Rangers keeping watch.”

“Don’t say that. Two Rangers would not be enough to fend off a dozen Orcs. You know this.”

“We would be back before they knew it—”

“In what? Three, five, ten months? Perhaps a year? And besides, there are plenty of them as it is! Thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard. A _wizard_. If we had a wizard aiding the Rangers, I would stand by you with this decision. But what you’re suggesting is _madness_.”

Elijah regarded her with calculating eyes, and then flicked them to the side. Fheon did the same and found Thorin and Gandalf locked in a very similar-aired conversation. Then, her brother looked at her again, and she knew she had seen that look in his eye before. It was the same look he had during their first days training with the Dunedain, when every night was a battle to ignore the aching limbs, and every morning was a conflict of obeying and waking up, or disobeying and keeping their eyes closed.

“We lost our home once, Fheon,” he said. “The same has happened to these dwarves, and I will not ignore it.”

At that moment, Fheon knew she had lost. She glanced to the side again and found Gandalf and Thorin had separated. With a defeated sigh, she muttered to her brother, “We’ll have to explain to the others exactly where we’re going…”

Elijah grinned, and just when she thought he was going to hug him (which she would not have allowed), he placed his hand on her head and ruffled her hair. “We’ll send Cali.”

“Fine.”

“It’s settled then?”

Fheon muttered in distaste, “If I die, I’m coming back to drag you with me.”

He was still grinning. “And what happens if I die?”

She rolled her eyes. “Highly doubtful. I would die first trying to save your arse. This _is_ a dragon we’re dealing with.”


	2. Borders of the Shire II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This very same story was published in Fanfiction.net in 2015, and has been finished there. I'm merely importing it here to broaden its prospects. This has, of course, been edited and improved, but please do forgive any errors I might have missed.
> 
> *Fheon is pronounced as Fee-yon.

Caligula was a red-tailed hawk Elijah and Fheon had taken under their wing.

They had found her perched on a branch during their early days as Rangers, and as the days progressed she would just keep watching them. It was Elijah who had gotten up the courage to call her to him. He let her perch on his arm. Though there were scratches there that took several days to heal, they had been allowed to keep her. Elijah gave her the nickname ‘Cali’, and trained her to be able to discern where he wanted her to go by using bird calls.

Whenever Hiram (one of the Rangers stationed with them) was required to meet up with the other Ranger stations, he would take Caligula with him and repeat to her a whistle. For Hobbiton, a single brief whistle. For Bree, it was one long whistle. For Fornost, one long one and a half. For Gharbad, three. Hollin, four. And the farther the distance was, the more whistles it took. It proved to be a very useful means of sending messages back and forth from the Dunedain camps.

Elijah borrowed a pen and piece of parchment from Balin—almost forgetting his name, in the process—and wrote a short paragraph to Hiram: _Off on an adventure with the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Reclaiming their homeland. Have Cali come back to me at dawn with your reply._ _Elijah and Fheon._

Afterwards, he rolled up the parchment and tied it to Cali’s leg using a twig.

Meanwhile, Fheon sat beside him, making sure that they had everything they needed in their packs. _Water, coins, two sets of clothes, two bedrolls, bandages, food that will last a week…_ In the end, she did not feel very reassured.

She turned her head and found her brother taking a deep breath, before bringing his cupped hands to his mouth. He blew into it for one second, initiating the bird call, and then let his hands drop back down. Cali’s head stretched out forward, and if she understood, then this was her way of showing it.

“What a beautiful creature,” Kili said, inching forward and reaching a hand out to Cali. “What’s his name?”

Cali bit his finger, drawing a thin line of blood.

“Caligula,” Elijah replied, watching with amused eyes as Kili sucked on his finger. “And he’s a she.”

“Got it.” Kili, still wincing in pain, turned and walked back to his brother, who was just as pleased as Elijah. Fheon stroked the hawk’s neck for a while, humming in approval, before pulling her hand away and telling her brother to send her off. Elijah tapped Cali’s wing twice, and then pushed his arm upward. Cali flapped her wings and in two beats, she was off. She disappeared above the tree line, leaving Elijah and Fheon to themselves.

Meanwhile, Thorin had ordered his Company to lay down their bedrolls. “Get some sleep,” he said.

Fheon handed Elijah his pack and, as he stood to set it down, took notice of something.

Frowning, she perked up and inquired silently, “You do not take watches?” At this, Gandalf raised his head and looked at her with a glint in his eye.

“We start those outside of Bree,” Thorin replied none too kindly. “The woods here are perfectly safe.”

Fheon regarded him doubtfully, but stopped when Elijah manhandled her pack out of her arms and prepared to lay it down beside his—which was, to say, amidst all the other dwarves. Fheon took it back and said, “I’d prefer to sleep with fresh air.”

She walked close to where the hobbit Bilbo was set up, and laid her pack down two trees away from him. When her pack was set up, she removed her bow and quiver and set it beside her; then she unclasped her cloak, rolled it, and placed it where her head would lay so it acted as a pillow. Rolling to her side, she stared at a single blade of grass until her eyelids grew heavy.

“Good night,” Elijah murmured, to which she only replied with a soft grunt.

It was a rocky start to her relationship with the Company, indeed.

* * *

 

The sun had barely risen when Fheon blinked her eyes open. It was only as she’d expected, of course. Her slumber had not been fitful. During the night, she was constantly awoken by the dwarves’ occasional mumblings. It was a mystery to her as to why she was the only one being disturbed. Even Elijah had slept through it, and she was fairly sure he had not been accustomed to snoring dwarves.

Frowning unhappily, Fheon rose as quietly as she could; taking her rolled up cloak, bow, and arrow with her, she then walked away from the clearing. Perhaps, if game walked by, she could do a bit of hunting for the dwarves’ breakfast, since they appeared to have no proper food for themselves anyway. And if her memory served her, there was supposed to be a freshwater creak not very far from where they were.

She unrolled her cloak and pinned the clasp together around her neck once more. It used to be heavy; she was not sure whether it had become lighter over the years, as she grew, or if she had just gotten used to it.

After only a few minutes of walking, Fheon was able to register the soft gurgling of the stream. She knelt by it, making sure that her cloak did not reach the bed, and splashed the water onto her face. The water was cool; it woke her up completely. She was rubbing drops of it onto her neck when she noticed something moving from the corner of her eye.

She seized up, almost shooting to her feet, but then relaxed and eased into a more suitable position when she found that it was a bevy of quails. There were half a dozen or so of them, quickly walking past Fheon as she slowly, gingerly, slipped her bow off her shoulder and nocked an arrow. Only three of the birds were very large and looked meaty, but that would have to do.

She took aim at the fattest one, held her breath and let her arrow fly. The tip had barely reached the one quail’s eye when two more arrows followed it, decapitating the other two.

Fheon took a deep breath, pleased with herself, and jumped across the stream. She pulled her arrows out of each quail’s head and washed them, before carrying the three birds by their tails. Deciding that she would leave the gutting and the skinning to the dwarves, she had only just jumped back across the stream when a rough voice questioned her: “What do you think you’re doing?”

She raised her head and stared at Thorin blankly; he was standing a little ways in front of her, looking at her with judgmental eyes. She raised the three quails hanging in her hand and answered, “Breakfast,” before trudging past him and back to the camp.

There, she found the rest of the Company already stretching their limbs and packing their bedrolls. She dropped her game in front of Bombur and Bofur, and was surprised when they did not even look up. They grunted, but said nothing more, and Fheon took this as a sign of good faith.

Elijah eyed her happily. “Early start?” he said.

“ _Someone_ had to find breakfast,” Fheon replied, taking out the canteen of water she had in her pack and gesturing to her quiver of arrows.

“You didn’t waste any arrows… And I thought you’d been getting out of practice.”

“If anyone’s out of practice, it’s you.”

“Want to see about that?”

Fheon rolled her eyes. “I hardly think we’ll have time for a shooting session. But tomorrow we’ll be up early— _if_ you wake up, that is—and we can see who’s really remembered Hiram’s lessons, hm?”

“Of course, but the Company goes first.” Her brother grinned, before clearing it from his face and unclenching his hand. “Got this just now,” he said, handing her a tiny slip of paper, only as big as her pinky. She unrolled it and found three words written onto the parchment:

_Be safe. – Hiram_

“At least he has an idea of what we’ve gotten ourselves into,” she muttered. Elijah did not laugh.

In minutes, the Company had found themselves each jobs to do. Bombur, Bofur, Bifur, and Ori were in charge with cooking. Dori, Nori, Oin, Balin and Bilbo had taken each of the Company’s canteens of water and gone to the stream to have them refilled. Fili and Kili did nothing in particular, but had convinced Gloin and Dwalin to join them in singing a cheery song. Gandalf watched from the sidelines, smoking his pipe amusedly.

As he kept his bedroll, Elijah listened with enthusiasm, and Fheon decided that they were close enough to the borders of the Shire for it to be safe from predators. There was daylight, after all.

Amidst the busy bustling of the dwarves, Fheon was able to discern a new pair of footsteps. She did not raise her head to acknowledge the arrival of Thorin, keeping her eyes trained on Bombur’s hands as he deftly skinned the quails she had killed; he was already done with two.

Ori somehow procured a pan, and Bofur returned in his seat with a pile of twigs in his arms. Bifur grunted something to Bofur, and Bofur called out for some water. Elijah offered his immediately and tossed his canteen to the dwarf, who caught it easily and poured some of the liquid onto the pan. Bofur placed the twigs into their still-warm fire pit and lit it. Ori placed the pan onto the fire. Judging from the amount of water on the pan, Fheon suspected they were not going to make quail stew.

“We will eat on the road,” said Thorin.

“Aye,” everyone said in reply, before returning to their business. Elijah tapped Fheon’s arm, and she turned to find him walking towards Gandalf.

“Oi, Gandalf,” he softly called.

The wizard bumbled to himself for a moment before raising his eyes to look at Elijah. “What is it, my boy?”

“Oh hum, you aren’t _that_ old,” Elijah said imperturbably. “But I came to ask: what exactly do you want us to do? You mentioned something about us being ‘scouts’ last night, and I couldn’t help but to wonder if we’re supposed to spy on someone, or look for something, or—?”

“All you have to do is merely run ahead of the Company,” Gandalf calmly replied. “If there is danger ahead, you will warn us. If there is not, then you will wait on your spot until we reach you.”

Elijah smiled. “Lovely.” He faced Fheon. “We’ll take turns scouting, then?”

She sighed, feigning misery. “Seeing as Thorin didn’t bring any extra ponies for us, then yes. We’ll be going on foot from here on in, I suppose.” She had meant for the Dwarf King to hear her words, and he did. But if he was affected by them, he did not show it. He merely met Fheon’s gaze for a long moment before looking away.

“Food’s ready!” Bofur called, and was met with many of the dwarves’ shouts of excitement.

Fheon craned her neck and was surprised to find more than three cooked quails’ parts in the pan. There must have been a turkey in there as well, and to her, it was already a lot of food for thirteen dwarves. But apparently, she was wrong.

“Is this all?” Kili asked, looking down at the single turkey leg he had been given in distaste.

“I thought we had more than this!” came his brother’s similar call.

Bofur gestured to Fheon and said, “Aye, the lass only brought back three quails. Not even a turkey! Could you believe it?”

Mutters of discontentment rumbled through the dwarves, and from the corner of her eye, she could see Elijah’s and Gandalf’s shoulders trembling as they laughed. Standing at the other side of the clearing was Thorin; the corners of his eyes were crinkled in amusement. And Fheon, though unhappy with being embarrassed, hid it well and raised an eyebrow at the Company.

“I suppose I’ll have to bring back a whole deer next time, then.”

Ori looked over at her and said, “Be better if you bring back two.”

Aghast, Fheon turned to look at her brother, and found his face completely lit up in amusement. And seeing this, she could not help but to manage a small smile.

When Dori was finished washing the pan in the stream, Thorin said, “Let us be off,” to which the Company answered with resounding “Aye”s.

“If they don’t plan on getting ambushed by wolves, we better hope they aren’t this noisy during supper,” Fheon muttered to her brother, who hummed seriously in agreement. As the dwarves and hobbit mounted their ponies, and Gandalf mounted his horse, the siblings took to stand ahead of the Company, even in front of Thorin.

Seeing that everyone was in place, Elijah turned to Fheon. “I’ll go first,” he said, before ruffling her hair and jogging off.

“He is going the right way, isn’t he?” Fheon asked Thorin out of pure worry.

“He is,” the dwarf replied.

“The way is just straight on from here?”

“I’ll tell you beforehand which turns to make.”

She nodded in acknowledgement and then, noticing the strand of hair that had strayed across her eye, undid her braid so she could redo it. Thorin spurred his horse and they ventured forth, Fheon straying behind slightly as she did not want to walk beside the Dwarf King. Her contempt for his self-satisfaction the previous night was still apparent, though she thought it best that she did not show it.

Apart from the occasional guffaws coming from Fili and Kili, and random skirmishes that broke out amongst the dwarves, there wasn’t much conversation to go with. At the very back of the group, Bilbo was holding his own with Gandalf. But the rest were quiet, as was Thorin. Which was why Fheon was quite surprised when, about fifteen minutes into the hike, the King Under the Mountain spoke—specifically, to her.

“I must ask, Ranger,” he said, and she was somewhat relieved that he did not use her name, “How old is your brother?”

It was an odd question, but one that had no risks when answered. “34 years of age,” she replied simply.

“And you?”

“31.”

He nodded. “I was impressed to see how skilled you were with a bow this morning,” he said, but the admiration was not clear. Fheon doubted if there was any in the first place. “I do hope you know how to use it in a battle.”

Hearing this, Fheon did her best to sound uncaring. “You needn’t worry then, master dwarf. I can hold my own in a battle just fine.”

That was when Elijah’s lean figure came into view. He was leaning against a tree, seeming to have been expecting them for quite some time. When he saw them, a smile inched its way up his cheek, and he jogged towards Fheon. “Job’s quite boring, really,” he stated. “Best find a way of entertaining yourself. The wait’s dreadful.”

“As expected,” Fheon said quietly, and then looked at the spot he had run from. “That’s as far as you got? Honestly, brother, I thought you were better than that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you care to try then?”

“It _is_ my turn to scout, isn’t it?” Fheon ran a heavy hand across his scalp, payback, before turning around and jogging forward a few steps.

“It was a joke, Fheon!” she heard Elijah say, a slightly panicked edge in his voice.

She turned around and stared at him blankly. “I know. I won’t go too far.”

She started jogging faster, focusing on her breathing as the grass crunched beneath her feet. The familiar heat of adrenaline found its way into her veins, something she had missed. Yet all too soon, pain started clawing at her chest. Her lungs heaved, her heart beat erratically, and her footfalls turned heavy. She stopped running the moment her foot lost balance, causing her to lean against a trunk of a tree for support. She fought for breath, stretching her shoulders and back, but smiled anyway.

When her breathing was once more normal, she crossed her arms and resumed Elijah’s position before, tilting her head but keeping her ears perked, as she waited for the Company to come into view.

* * *

 

And so they established a daily routine.

In the mornings and afternoons and nighttimes, either Fheon or Elijah went hunting for game—occasionally together if the older of the two would not wake up. They and the Company would eat on the road—occasionally on the ground—and there would be light banter, but never heavy.

When faced with mountain paths, Thorin and Gandalf would instruct the Ranger on which turns to make and which not to. Elijah would always scout first, and during her time at the head of the group with Thorin, she did not speak to him unless she needed to. She knew he felt the same way.

The days rolled by.

A week in, Thorin stated that it was time for the nightly watches to begin. However, one night would never take up the whole Company’s cooperation; only perhaps four or five of them. So each night, the one who had stayed on watch the previous night would not volunteer to watch again. Except for Elijah and Fheon. They always volunteered.

Three weeks in, Fheon was on scout duty, and she noticed their hawk Caligula sitting atop a tree, looking down at her. She cupped her hands together and brought them to her lips and blew, and the hawk flew away.

She stared after her, wondering where she was going, or whether other journeyers would spot her flying predatorily in the sky.


	3. Rhudaur I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This very same story was published in Fanfiction.net in 2015, and has been finished there. I'm merely importing it here to broaden its prospects. This has, of course, been edited and improved, but please do forgive any errors I might have missed.
> 
> *Fheon is pronounced as Fee-yon.

Seven weeks in, they arrived at Bree, and stayed there overnight. Each member of the Company paid for their expenses, including Bilbo, Fheon, and Elijah—and none of them had brought many coins to begin with. Somehow, they got by.

After a night scarce of sleep, they left Bree at dawn.

The Rangers were forced to become more cautious with their approach as scouts. As always, Elijah went first, yet this time he did not run mindlessly into the wilderness. He advanced in a hunter’s crouch, with an arrow nocked constantly. Purposefully, he did not reach very far, and Fheon did not tease him for it. She assumed his same position and ventured away from the Company, her ears pricked. Even when hunting for game, the two of them had decided that it was best they hunt together, rather than alone.

Sometimes, Caligula would appear out of nowhere. Fheon knew she had been following them from day one.

It was then that Fheon stopped taking note of the days that passed. With each passing day, their survival grew more important than her displeasure in travelling with such an oblivious bunch. The Company went first, always.

She was high enough up a mountain that she stopped in her tracks, putting her scouting duty to a pause. Her chest was still heaving when she felt someone pat her shoulder; she did not need to look up to know that it was her brother, rushing up to take the burden of mountain climbing off her shoulders.

Gulping for air and trying to calm her heart, Fheon slid down to sit on the cool ground and laid her bow down beside her. She slipped her pack off her shoulders, rummaged through it for her water, and brought the lip of her canteen to her mouth; her heart dropped when she emptied it after only three gulps.

A pony came trotting up in front of her, and she shook her head.

“We need to find more water soon,” she told Thorin, “or this quest will be coming up short.”

The Dwarf King turned his head, staring out at the view of the mountainside. “There’s bound to be a source of freshwater somewhere on the mountain,” he said. “A spring or a cove. A waterfall.”

Fheon said nothing in reply, only nodding her head as she struggled to regain her footing. Her legs were tired, aching from using them so much every day. But she was not going to say that to anyone. Not even to her brother, who would try to lighten her load. She did not need to look weak.

Taking a deep breath, she trailed after Thorin and walked a little ways behind him, sometimes having to push against his pony’s backside so as to keep from falling over. For what seemed like an eternity, Fheon did her best to ignore the pain within the heels of her feet, pay no attention to the way her mouth felt like it was filled with sand, to disregard the ache gathering in the base of her back. Nothing else mattered but to keep on walking.

Then her brother entered her line of sight. She sighed audibly. Normally, she would not have been so relieved to see him, because it meant having to take over. But she saw the incline stop in the clearing he stood on, and she rushed forward to check if it was true, and it was. They had reached the top of the mountain; which meant that, the following day, there would be nothing but declines and only a few inclines.

“Good,” said Thorin, dismounting his pony. “We will rest here for the night.”

Fheon and Elijah literally collapsed onto their bedrolls. Elijah immediately made to pull his boots off, while Fheon pulled her cloak tighter around her; yet the longer she watched her brother rubbing his blistered feet, the more she desired to do the same. She ended up slipping her boots off as well and arranging them beside her sleeping roll.

Bofur and Bifur started a fire. Bombur pulled some of their leftover food out of his pack and heated it on Ori’s pan with some water. They had been eating nothing else but leftovers turned into stew for three days, and Thorin was convinced that they would soon be left with nothing but spoiled food. Fheon and Elijah had done their best to procure fresh meat, killing any animal that strayed onto their path, but there was never enough to last the night.

Ori handed small, wooden bowls to Bombur, who filled each one to the brim with the cream-colored stew. Bofur handed each of the Company their bowls, and it was the first time Fheon accepted hers with utter gratefulness.

She took a long sip of the soup, not caring that it burned her mouth. She sighed as the heat travelled down to her stomach, warming her. She brought the single piece of meat to her lips, biting into it and letting the soup flood her mouth. Beside her, Elijah let out contented hums as he dug into his stew.

As soon as Bombur was finished with his stew, he tossed his bowl—licked clean—to Ori, right before tucking himself into his bedroll and closing his eyes. Seconds afterwards, he started snoring. Half the Company followed in his example; Fili, Kili, and Gandalf were the only ones who did not succumb to fatigue. Fheon could see why. They had ponies to carry them up the mountain, while she and her brother only had their own two feet.

Grimacing, she laid down on her bedroll, staring at her quiver. It was still full, which she supposed was a good thing. Behind her, Elijah started snoring as well.

Out of nowhere, Fili started singing. And it wasn’t a tune fit for sleeping. It was loud and merry. Gandalf hushed him immediately, and the nephews of Thorin lapsed into a respectable silence. Fheon allowed her eyelids to finally drop closed, sinking into a dreamless slumber…

 

…and this was interrupted by the utterance of a single word.

“ _Orcs_?”

Fheon shot awake, hand already gripping her bow and an arrow nocked a second afterward.

Wildly, her eyes scanned the area. Everyone in her immediately line of sight was still asleep, except for Thorin, whose eyes were wide open—yet she could see the weariness in them. She turned to her right and found Bilbo on his feet, his eyes trained on Fili and Kili, who sat closest to the fire. To her left, Gandalf was sitting by the mountainside, smoking on his pipe.

Nothing was happening. Nothing seemed out of place.

Slowly, Fheon forced herself to slow her breathing and return the nocked arrow to her quiver.

She put her bow back down, as Fili said, “Throat-cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there. The lone-lands are crawling with them.”

“They strike in the wee small hours when everyone’s asleep,” Kili continued, “Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.”

Bilbo looked away from the pair of them and to the lands that lay below them. Kili shared a look with his brother and then the two of them were chuckling. Suddenly Fheon was overcome with the urge to draw her bow again. But thinking against this, she merely slipped back into her bedroll and rolled to her side, facing away from the two princes.

“You think that’s funny?” she heard Thorin snap. “You think a night raid by Orcs is a _joke_?”

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Kili replied in a quiet voice, so quiet that Fheon nearly missed it.

“No, you didn’t,” said Thorin. “You know nothing of the world.”

“Don’t mind him, laddies,” a new voice said. Fheon did not have the energy to roll back around and see who it was, but it definitely was not Gandalf. It was one of the dwarves. Knowing this, she settled for pulling her cloak over her head and listening in with closed eyes. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs.”

Hearing this, she bristled slightly. She did not know whether his experiences could even compare with hers, but with what she’d seen in the world so far—it made her doubt.

“After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain,” the dwarf continued, “King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs, led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler.”

Fheon seized up beneath her cloak. If any of the dwarves behind her noticed, they did not acknowledge. But memories of what had happened years ago in her hometown of Evendim flooded into her mind, rendering her mute. Unconsciously, her body started to shake.

“The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the King. Thrain, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed… we did not know. We were leaderless.”

She remembered the song her mother had been singing that night, how peaceful everything had been. Then her father had run into the house, covered in blood, and everything went downhill from there.

“Defeat and death were upon us… That is when I saw him.”

_The monsters that came running down from the hills had murdered so many already. The river was gushing with blood. One of the monsters stabbed her father first, and then pulled her mother and sister out of the house. She followed soon after, but the Orc tugging at her hair was so much larger than the others. His face and chest were as pale as the moon, and covered with scars. He ran his finger across her cheek, and his nail was sharp enough to draw blood._

“A young Dwarf prince, facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.”

_She felt his blade cutting into the skin of her jaw, and closed her eyes. But death did not come. Only darkness and pain. His hand left her neck and she was thrown to the side. A new sense of agony overwhelmed her, worse than the shock she had felt to seeing her parents killed. When she opened her eyes, her arm was on fire._

“Our forces rallied and drove the Orcs back. And our enemy had been defeated. But there was neither feast nor song that night; for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived.”

Fheon felt someone gripping her wrist, and even though she did not know who it was, she curled around it.

“And I thought to myself then, ‘There is one who I could follow. There is one I could call king.’”

The same hand gripping her wrist travelled to her face and wiped away the single tear that fell. Fheon opened her eyes and found her cloak pulled back, with Elijah’s tear-sheened eyes staring back at her. Her trembling stopped. She was thankful that the dwarves were all facing away, and that she was too far away from the campfire to be noticeable.

“Thank you,” she whispered to her brother, and in reply, he squeezed her wrist again.

“And the Pale Orc?” came Bilbo’s voice. “What happened to him?”

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came,” Thorin said. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

Seeing the Dwarf King start to walk towards them, Fheon gave Elijah’s wrist one final squeeze before pulling her cloak back over her head. And when Thorin’s words registered to her, she shook her head.

* * *

 

The following morning, Fheon did not wake up by herself.

She was shaken out of her slumber—by whom, she did not know. For when she felt the heavy hand shaking her shoulder forcefully, her first instinct was to reach for her long dagger, unsheathe it, and press it against the stranger’s throat. Her mind thought it was an Orc, and it was only when she blinked the sleep out of her eyes did she register that it was one of the dwarves who was shaking her awake.

Bifur’s eyes stayed wide, afraid. Fheon’s heart beat wildly, and she was sure it would fly out of her chest in any moment, but she removed the blade from the dwarf’s throat.

“Apologies, Bifur,” she muttered hurriedly, sheathing her dagger again.

Bifur bobbed his head vigorously and pounded on his chest, grunting; his eyes remained wide. And then he pointed over his shoulder. Fheon craned her neck to find almost the entire Company awake and ready for the day’s journey. She glanced around, looking for Elijah, and found him not among them. “Where is my brother?”

Gloin answered her. “Lad’s already scouting ahead,” he said gruffly. “Thorin wanted you awake ages ago, but Gandalf told him to let you sleep in for a while. Says yesterday really drained ya.”

Gandalf was right, then. As Fheon stood up, she could already feel the ache in her arms from having to hold her bow for practically every day, in her back from the weight of her pack, and in her legs for walking up a mountain for three straight days. Leaning down to keep her bedroll, she had to hide her grimace as the pain hiked up twofold.

She slipped her quiver over her shoulder and grabbed her bow, and she was looking to make her way to the front of the Company once more when Bilbo stopped her. But even more confusing was the fact that he held his pony’s reins in his hand.

“What?” said Fheon, frowning. “Is she sick?”

“No, no, not at all.” The hobbit shook his head. “But, ah, G-Gandalf told me I should lend Myrtle to you for a while. At least, until we meet up with your brother. It’s because—well, Gandalf and I thought that perhaps your job must be tiring. And well… horses can help.”

She regarded the pony, which was constantly whipping its tail and neighing. Behind her, the Company mounted their ponies. “I suppose she’ll be able to carry Elijah as well…” Fheon pondered.

“Oh, yes!” said Bilbo. “She’s a very strong horse.”

“We’ll have to transfer the bags on her already… Don’t want her fainting and falling off the cliffside, hm?” When a look of fear edged onto Bilbo’s face, Fheon shook her head. “I’m joking. But yes, we _will_ have to transfer the bags. Or some of them, at least.”

“Oh—of course!” The hobbit shuffled for a while before getting up the nerve to lift two heavy-looking bags off Myrtle. He dragged them to the pony tied to Thorin’s, and planted them on its back. The pony neighed loudly and dug its hooves into the dirt, but did not throw the bags off.

Satisfied, Fheon mounted Myrtle and let the pony adjust to her weight for a moment before gently spurring her. Myrtle threw her head back and whinnied softly, but otherwise trotted forward. Fheon let her skip ahead the rest of the Company, even past Thorin, to lead them down the slope of the mountain.

A few moments later, the King Under the Mountain finally spoke his mind. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Riding a pony,” Fheon answered dully.

“Why are you riding ahead of us?”

“That’s what’s on my job description.” And then she called over her shoulder, “Isn’t it, Gandalf?” No reply came from the wizard, but Thorin said nothing more of the matter as well.

They lapsed into a tense silence. It was too late for Fheon to edge back, anyway; the path was too thin for there to be two lanes. Thorin would just have to swallow his pride long enough for them to reach another clearing.

Only mere minutes into the ride down did Fheon finally remember her extreme thirst, as well as her hunger. Had the others eaten already? Was that why Thorin had wanted her woken up earlier, because the food was running out? She glanced over her shoulder anxiously, and found that none of the dwarves were complaining about empty stomachs. Was she going to have to hold out until lunch with gulps of water from her brother’s canteen, then? She groaned inwardly, displeased with herself, and started counting in her head.

Six hundred seconds later, Thorin spoke again.

“Ori told me about your little incident with Bifur earlier this morning,” he said, “and I couldn’t help but wonder what had caused you such distress. Would you care to share with us?” If he was really interested on hearing her answer, he hid it well.

“Unfortunately, master dwarf, it is none of your business,” Fheon replied dully, determined not to let him see her waver.

“Could it have been the story Balin was telling last night?” another dwarf—Dwalin, she thought—inquired. “Tis not a very good image to fall asleep to, lass.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I must have fallen asleep earlier.”

“Nonsense!” said Fili. “Why, I saw you shaking with laughter after I and Kili told Bilbo about the Orcs—which we must apologize for, by the way.”

“Yeah, sorry, Bilbo,” said Kili. Bilbo accepted their apologies graciously, while Fheon thought furiously for an excuse.

She sighed wearily. “If you must know, it was freezing last night.”

“That may be,” said Thorin. “But it does not answer my first question. You’ve heard our stories. I think it is time we heard yours.”

Gandalf tried to interrupt—“Thorin.”—but was cut off anyway.

“She’s kept it from us long enough, Gandalf,” said Thorin, a bite in his voice. “If she wants to truly be part of my Company, then she must tell us everything.”

“Why _must_ I,” Fheon said, “when the great _Thorin Oakenshield_ has given me no good reason to?”

“Do not ever mock me, _girl_ ,” his voice shot back at her from behind. “You and your brother have only stayed in this Company for this long because of Gandalf. He thinks your prowess may help us. But so far, you’ve done _nothing_ very helpful. Exactly what I expected from two _humans_. Weak, prideful creatures—”

“ _I’m_ prideful?” Fheon finally snapped, turning Myrtle around with a hard tug, forcing the pony to rear her head back and then block the Company from going any further with her wide-enough body.

Fheon met Thorin’s gaze with eyes blazing, and they were locked in such hated reverie, neither of them saying anything, but Fheon so deeply wanting to. She found herself filled with such contempt for the Dwarf King; she gripped the hilt of the dagger on her hip, her feet digging into Myrtle’s side just so she wouldn’t dismount and stab the dwarf in the eye.

Feet crunching on the dirt behind her were the only reason she needed to look away from the King and dismount Myrtle. A bit calmed down now, but not enough, Fheon whirled around and slipped the reins into her brother’s hands, before storming down the mountain slope, getting as far away from the proud Heir of Durin as she could.

She took her bow into her hands and nocked an arrow; her fingers were shaking, either with anger or fatigued limbs, though she was careful not to release the arrow.

Only a minute later did she look over her shoulder to find Elijah jogging up to her. “I gave Bilbo back his pony,” he said, breathless. “Never was good with riding anyway. What happened?”

“Sticking his bloody nose into other people’s bloody businesses,” Fheon muttered unhappily. Her brother said nothing, only sighed, and they fell into a companionable silence.

When they finally stopped to rest and wait for the Company to catch up, Elijah said, “We should tell them, Fheon.”

“Thorin doesn’t _deserve_ to know—”

“But the rest of the Company do,” he retorted gently. “That the Pale Orc still lives. They had their kin killed by Azog as well. It is only right.”

Fheon said nothing. She did not look at her brother as they waited for the Company to appear from behind the corner. And when they did, she told Elijah, “Our past is for us to keep, and for them to earn.”

Turning around, she scouted ahead once more, and her brother silently followed.


	4. Rhudaur II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This very same story was published in Fanfiction.net in 2015, and has been finished there. I'm merely importing it here to broaden its prospects. This has, of course, been edited and improved, but please do forgive any errors I might have missed.
> 
> *Fheon is pronounced as Fee-yon.

“Your hair’s gotten longer.”

Fheon sighed, hefting her bow up at a better angle. “Yes, brother,” she said, “That is what happens when you don’t cut it for several months. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t gotten a beard fit for dwarves yet.”

Elijah looked hurt. “I shave every three days, thank you very much. It doesn’t do for a young face like mine to start looking like I’m 43.”

“Oh please—Wait.” She stopped in her tracks when she heard rustling above them. Her head snapped up just in time to see the dozens of birds flying away from where they were headed, resulting in several twigs and leaves falling onto the Rangers’ heads. Staring after the flock, Fheon asked, “Do you think Cali’s with them?”

“Perhaps,” Elijah said with a sigh. “I also think that it’s going to rain rather soon.”

“Should we tell the others?” she said, no matter how much she did not want to. Even after the months of travelling with them, she still felt that she owed no such loyalty to them. And rain was hardly going to be fatal.

“Though it would be fun to give them a surprise,” said Elijah, “I think that would be best, yes.” And after a moment, he added, “I’ll do it.”

Fheon frowned. “You’re certain?”

He looked at her. “They aren’t very far off. I’ll make it quick,” he replied. “The Company goes first.”

Before she could say any more, he gave her forehead a quick peck before circling back and jogging off. Fheon stared after him, waiting for him to disappear behind the thick neck of trees, and then turning around and continuing on her way.

And it was as they’d forecasted. Grey clouds gathered overhead only an hour afterwards. While the dwarves were prepared for a rather heavy kind of rain, Fheon and Elijah were not. When the first few drops of water started bouncing onto their cloaks, they pulled their hoods over their heads only to find that it would do no good. In less than an hour, the light drizzle had turned into a downpour of freezing cold rain. The ground turned muddy and slippery, soaking into their feet as the shower soaked through their clothes.

Elijah did not think twice before shedding his cloak, thinking that it would not be worth dealing with the extra weight anyway, since he was already trembling to the bone. After only a minute of coaxing, he convinced Fheon to do the same. They hurriedly trekked back to the Company and secured their rolled-up cloaks onto the saddle of their carriage-horse. While they did this, Gandalf had engaged the dwarves in an introduction about the rest of his fellow wizards.

“…five of us,” he was saying. “The greatest of our order is Saruman the White. Then there are the two Blue Wizards… you know, I’ve quite forgotten their names.”

“And who is the fifth?” Bilbo asked.

“Well, that would be Radagast the Brown,” said Gandalf.

“Is he a great wizard, or… is he more like you?”

Fheon managed a small smile.

“I think he’s a very great wizard, in his own way,” Gandalf explained mildly. “He’s a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forest lands to the east. And a good thing too, for always evil will look to find a foothold in this world.”

She felt someone tap her shoulder, and looked to find Elijah gesturing that they move on. Nodding, she made sure that the straps holding their cloaks were secure before following her brother. But already a little ways away from the Company, someone called her name: “Fheon!”

And she knew that voice. She detested the owner, but halted to hear what he had to say anyway.

“If this rain hasn’t stopped by nightfall,” said Thorin, “make sure you know where to find shelter.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Fheon did not turn around when she nodded, but made sure that he saw anyway. She jogged after her brother, wondering if the Dwarf King had ever been ridiculed by a _human_ before; and if he had not, then she was feeling rather proud to possibly be the first one. Proud and surprised.

* * *

 

Elijah caught sight of a large, open-mouthed dry cave just as the sun was going down. And though the rain was lightening up, they needed a dry place to sleep anyway; he and Fheon dutifully jogged back to the Company and told them of what they had found. If Thorin was pleased, he did not show it. The Rangers led the dwarves to the cave, where they immediately started peeling their armor and coats off of them. Elijah shared a glance with Fheon, who was the only female in the group, and she rolled her eyes.

“Believe me, it will not do me any good,” she said, smiling slightly.

“Yes,” Elijah quietly replied. “But I’m quite protective of my sister, and I do not want dwarves to be the first people she loses her modesty to.”

“You’ve seen me half-naked before.”

“Yes, but I’m your brother. Even Hiram hasn’t seen you naked.”

Over his shoulder, the Company had laid their wet clothes upon the rocks, no doubt hoping the rain would lighten up enough for them to dry. Everyone, even Bilbo, had changed into what seemed to be their only extra sets of clothing; which were, to say, tunics and breeches. Gandalf was the only one who had not changed out of his clothing, and Fheon doubted he ever would. She wondered when was the last time he had put on a different set of clothes, and wrinkled her nose.

“Go change, brother,” she murmured. “The rain looks like it will stop soon. When it does, I’ll have to go back out again to look for wood for a fire. Don’t want everyone to freeze to death, do we?”

“I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need. I saw a pile a little ways back, not very far. I’ll be back in minutes.”

He frowned. “We are very far from civilization, Fheon. There are sure to be wolves—”

“That is what we were trained for, Elijah,” she retorted softly. “I know what to do. Now, change and go bond with the dwarves or something.” She pushed him forward and, seeing the water dripping from his wild hair, added, “And ask one of them to cut your hair, will you? You look like a dog.”

He threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder before removing his belt. Fheon looked away and stood by the mouth of the cave, waiting for the rain to stop completely.

It dragged on for quite a while. When it finally ceased, Fheon rushed out, ignoring the bite of the cold air compressing against her skin, and keeping her steps light. However, it was difficult to silently walk on mud. She traced the horse tracks of the Company and found the pile of wooden sticks the same place she’d seen it before: by a small hill. Perhaps an animal had gathered it, for some reason.

Working quickly, she shook the sticks until they were as dry as they could be, stuffed them into her pack, and turned to walk back to the camp immediately.

She froze when she heard several heavy, wet thuds coming from her right. But the longer she stood still, the closer the sound got. Fheon whirled around, nocking an arrow in the blink of an eye. A large brown blur was coming straight for her.

She was forced to dive to the side, barely being able to dodge the deer in time as it ran wildly up the hill, disappearing above. Fheon stared after it in confusion, wondering why it was running. And she received her answer when she switched her attention to where the deer had come from, and found a pack of wolves thundering through the trees. Alarm shot through her. She flattened herself to the muddy ground.

Her heart pulsed violently. The wolves were sure to hear it. Fortunately, they were too focused on chasing the deer to notice. As they ran past her position, Fheon counted that there were five of them. Not very many, but they were larger than the ones she was used to. It was unlucky that they were hunting the only deer that she was going to come across on the way.

Slowing her breathing, Fheon stayed on the ground for a minute longer before standing up. Mud stuck to her over-shirt, making the cool cloth stick to her skin. She did all she could to wipe it away and then slipped her pack around her shoulders once more, before nocking an arrow.

If the wolves were left alone, they would follow the ponies’ odor to the camp. A single deer was not going to be enough to sate an entire pack’s hunger. She could not take that chance. And besides, there was still hope that at least _some_ of the deer would be left.

Fheon followed the wolf tracks on the mud, being as quiet as possible because she knew their hearing was very good; and it was a quiet evening. But it was also getting dark. She had to hurry.

Quickening her pace, she found the wolf pack huddled around a mere lump of the deer, with its limbs already red and only its stomach untouched. Fheon cursed under her breath and pulled another arrow out, so that her bow was nocked with two.

Taking a deep breath, she let the arrows fly. She didn’t wait for them to meet their target before releasing another one, which embedded itself in a wolf’s head. _One._

Two of the wolves growled at Fheon, advancing on her slowly with their teeth bared. Fheon waited for their next act, her eyes wide in anticipation.

They did not attack at the same time. The one to her left sprung first, and she buried her arrow shaft in its chest. She dodged to the side. The wolf fell to the muddy ground with a shortened yelp. _Two._

Its companion reared its head back to howl, but Fheon cut it short by shooting its neck. _Three_.

The two wolves she had failed to down advanced as one, her arrows buried in their sides, broken, but not doing much to weaken them. Fheon quickly discarded her bow and unsheathed her dagger, the same moment they leapt at her. She slid to the side with her sword arm out, and was rewarded with a slick sound as her blade cut into one of the wolves’ chests. _Four._

She was straightening up when the remaining lone wolf jumped at her, digging its claws into her shoulders.

As they fell, Fheon flipped them over and pinned the wolf to the ground. It snarled and bit at her face, making her lean back a bit. Tightening her grip on her sword, she pulled her hand back and buried the blade into wolf’s neck, to the hilt. The animal’s eyes rolled back into its head.

With a final whimper, it turned limp beneath Fheon’s body. _Five._

Fheon stood up and wiped the blood on her sword off using the cloth of her pants. Breathing heavily, she walked from wolf to wolf, slitting their throats for good measure. None of her arrows could be salvaged. She had lost five. The deer’s stomach—the part facing upwards, at least—was still good to cook.

Fheon hacked off a good part of it and then, realizing she hadn’t brought her cloak, peeled her muddy over-shirt off her and used it to wrap the meat. She had one more layer of clothing left apart from her tunic, which was a good thing. She wasted no more time and carried the meat back to the camp, silently hoping there were no more wolves within the immediate vicinity.

In the camp, there was still no fire running. Everyone had their arms around themselves, shivering violently, though Gandalf tried to be subtle about it. Elijah had not moved from his spot, and was staring at the ground when Fheon entered the cave.

She dropped the deer meat in front of Bombur, giving him the briefest explanation she could give—“Supper.”—before slipping her pack off and taking the sticks of wood out. She handed the bundle to Dori and Nori, who hurriedly went about making a fire. At that point, the wood was completely dry, the moisture soaked by her pack.

Satisfied, Fheon walked over to her brother and sat beside him. He smiled, nuzzling the top of her head, and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a familiar gruff voice.

“What took you so long?” Thorin asked, stepping away from his spot leaning against the wall. “Were the pile of sticks so far away from where you had originally thought?”

Fheon sighed, taking her boots off. “Do you think hunting a deer takes so short a while?”

“You didn’t even bring back the whole thing, lass,” said Gloin, further emphasizing Thorin’s point. “One side of the deer isn’t gonna stay ‘til the morning.”

“Why?” Thorin added, a suspicious tone edging into his voice.

“If you _must_ know,” Fheon said slowly. “I only managed to salvage that square of meat from a pack of wolves.”

“Wolves?” Bilbo said, sounding so surprised.

“Yes.”

“How many?” Dwalin asked, already hefting up his axe.

Fheon waved him away. “You needn’t worry. I’ve dealt with them—”

“Why didn’t you come back and tell me?” Elijah cut in, the worry clear in his voice. “I could have helped—”

“There were _five_ of them, Elijah. Not very threateningly large either.” With this, she was lying, but only to ease her brother’s nerves. She gave him a reassuring smile as she rummaged through her pack for her extra set of clothes, saying, “I will change, now.”

He frowned. “Where?”

“In that corner,” she replied, nodding to a dark, vacant space near where Thorin was standing. It was the farthest from the bedrolls of the dwarves. “You’re going to cover me, of course.”

Elijah followed her to the corner and unrolled his cloak. He stretched it as wide as it would go, nodded, and then turned his head.

“If you peek, I’m going to stab you in the eye,” she muttered to him, making him laugh.

As Fheon was pulling her tunic over her head, she grimaced slightly as a stinging pain erupted from her chest. She glanced down at the compress wrapped over her breasts, and found cuts by her collar bones. They must have come from the wolf that had pounced on her… Thinking quickly, she undid the compress and told Elijah to retrieve his canteen of water.

“Why?” he said, doubt lacing his voice. His head turned to look at her but she pushed it back.

“ _Don’t_ look,” she reminded sternly. “One of the wolves scratched me. I have to clean the wound.”

“What about the cloak?”

“I’ll hold it up.” Her fingers tightened around the hems of his cloak and he rushed across the cave to where their packs lay on the ground. The cold air nipped at the scratches on her chest, making Fheon grimace.

As her brother was coming back, she felt eyes on her, and turned her head to find Thorin staring at her. Quietly, she asked, “Have I been useful yet?” He looked quite taken aback.

Fheon took the canteen from her brother’s hand, and as Elijah regained hold of his cloak, she turned and poured some water onto her cupped hand. She bent it slightly so the scratches stayed beneath the water. As it soaked there, she applied pressure to the skin beside the wounds, so as to dispel the dirt that could have gotten inside.

The stinging increased gradually, and Fheon bit back her hisses. Only when the water had slipped past her hand did she once again wrap her chest with the compress. She slipped out of her current pants and changed into a new pair, and then slipped into a clean tunic.

Finished, she gave her brother’s shoulder a light tap, but when he turned his head, she was already out of the corner, walking back to their spot by the far wall. She set up her bedroll and sat there, redoing her braid. While she did so, she stared at her bare feet, cool against the cave floor.

Bombur finished with the stew, and Dori gave away the filled bowls. Fheon nodded at the dwarf as he placed her share down beside her, as her hands were rather occupied. She glanced at her brother, who had already started eating, and whispered, “Is it good?”

“Better than yesterday’s,” he murmured past a mouthful of meat. “It must be the deer. You’ve saved us all, sister. I am eternally grateful.”

The corner of her lips turned up in a small smile. “The Company goes first,” she said, and then looked up. “None of the dwarves have cut your hair yet.”

“I was thinking you’d know more about styling hair than the lot of them.”

“You’re joking,” she said, feigning seriousness. “We’ve been in this company for nearly half a year now. Have you not noticed their beards? They’re as majestic as the sun.”

Elijah laughed loudly as she finished with her hair, shifting so she could unsheath her sword. “You know,” he said, “It would do you good to show these dwarves that you actually have a sense of humor.”

“And why is that?” Fheon placed the sheath onto the ground and adjusted herself so she was kneeling behind him. She regarded her brother’s wild mane of a head.

“Well, you aren’t exactly in Thorin’s good graces. And the dwarves are actually a good crowd, once you get used to them. Even talking with Bilbo has its benefits!”

“Say if I were to show my true colors,” she mused, cutting off a thick bunch of the hair by the nape of his neck. “Exactly how would that conversation start?”

Elijah started stroking his chin, which had obtained a thin expanse of stubble. “I suppose I’d start it off with a story, and you would cut in from time to time with your wonderful jests.”

“I do not think that would end very well.” Fheon gathered some hair on the side of his head and cut them off as evenly as she could. “What story would it be anyway?”

“Perhaps our _life_ story?”

She gave the back of his head a rough swipe, and then hastily finished off with his trim. “Funny,” she muttered as she returned to her bedroll. While she finished her stew, she judged her work from afar. She could have done better with the back, but the front looked just fine.

When she finished with her food, she handed the bowl to Ori and laid down on her bedroll, staring at the stony ceiling. Elijah soon followed suit and rolled to his side, looking at her. “But I am serious though, sister,” he murmured into the silence. “We must tell them soon. We must.”

Fheon turned her head slightly—to look at the dwarves who had finally settled down and was humming a silent, peaceful tune; to Gandalf, who was smoking on his pipe as usual, a small smile playing on his lips; to Bilbo, enjoying the soft melody; to Thorin, who had taken up the first watch.

Fheon read the look on his face silently, a look of calm and kindness. If his words were the same, perhaps she could learn to see him as a leader. But until then, he would simply be another one of the many dwarves she had to protect.

Meeting her brother’s eyes again, she said, “Soon.”


	5. Rhudaur III

**_Eleven weeks later…_ **

As they waited atop what had been a particularly uncooperative slope, Fheon could not ignore the uncomfortable ache beneath her stomach.

It had begun earlier that morning, and she had been lucky enough to have a pair of clean pants in her bag. Standing beside Elijah, she opened and closed her legs as subtly as she could, doing her best to get the rag into a more comfortable position. Her brother must have noticed her shifting, for he looked down at her with a frown.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t think you’d want to know my _problems_ right now,” she muttered in reply, impatience already lacing her words.

“Oh…” His frown deepened. “Girl problems?”

“You could say that.”

Just then, the Company appeared from a bend in the road; Thorin at front, as usual, followed by Gandalf, the dwarves, and then Bilbo in the middle of it all. Fheon was forced to hide her discomfort behind her usual blank gaze, but as she and her brother trudged further down the path Thorin had told them to follow, her hand would occasionally stray to her lower abdomen, where she would apply pressure so that the ache would disappear for a while.

At some point, she and Elijah came across a mangled ruin of a house. It was completely leveled, and Elijah, not knowing how Thorin or Gandalf would react, decided it was best to wait for them to catch up. Fheon wordlessly agreed.

After telling her brother to wait for the Company, she ventured closer to the ruins of the house. Though she felt like it was too small to exactly be a _house_. It was more of a shack, really, with grey stone walls and wooden tiles for a roof. It reminded her of a house she would always pass by, when she was a child in Evendim.

She quickly shook the thought away and knelt down to touch a dark spot on the ground. It was cool to the touch, despite it being a rather warm afternoon. When she pulled her finger away, the color had stuck to her skin. And when she brought the liquid to her nose, it smelled like blood.

Disturbed, she exited the ruins to find Thorin and the Company already trotting their ponies up the path. “We’ll camp here for the night,” said Thorin, dismounting his pony. “Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them.”

While Elijah had gone off to inquire to Thorin about what help he could provide, Fheon pulled Gandalf aside and told him what she had found. A grim sort of expression appeared on his wrinkled face, and he walked into the old shack. He gazed around at the walls and ceilings.

“A farmer and his family used to live here,” he said.

“What could have happened to them?” Fheon asked quietly.

“Wolves, perhaps.”

“One wolf pack could not have caused such destruction to the furnishings, Gandalf. It was something much larger than wolves.”

Behind them, Thorin was barking out orders. Fheon wondered if he had already given her brother something to do, for when Elijah got bored, he would spout things that were of no import _ceaselessly_. She noticed the King Under the Mountain start to make his way towards her, and she turned around.

“I think it would be wiser to move on,” said Gandalf, facing Thorin. “We could make for the Hidden Valley.”

The dwarf shook his head. He said, “I have told you already, I will _not_ go near that place.” Fheon did her best to seem as invisible as possible.

“Why not? The Elves could help us. We could get food, rest, advice.”

“I do not need their advice.”

“We have a map that we cannot read. Lord Elrond could help us.”

“ _Help_?” The King’s voice turned deadly somber. “A dragon attacks Erebor. What _help_ came from the Elves? Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls… The Elves looked on and did _nothing_. And you ask me to seek out the very people who betrayed my grandfather, who betrayed my father.”

“You are neither of them,” Gandalf urged. “I did not give you that map and key for you to hold onto the past.”

“ _I did not know that they were yours to keep_.” Thorin looked up at the wizard’s face with cold eyes; Fheon knew that this was not fearlessness, but obstinacy. She shook her head as Gandalf whirled around and stormed off.

Bilbo was the only one oblivious enough to ask, “Gandalf, where are you going?”

“To seek the company of the only one around here who’s got any sense.”

Her brother, this time, “And who’s that?”

“Myself, Elijah!”

Fheon stared after him in distress and scratched her head. “Well, there goes our only wizard,” she muttered.

“You support his claims, then?” Thorin demanded from behind her. “That we should venture to Elven territory and seek aid there? I’ve heard Rangers have been quite friendly to elves as of late. I suppose you have something good to say about them.”

Bristling, she turned around slowly and met his furious gaze, nearly losing grip of her controlled demeanor. “The Elves are a fancy, condescending race that is _much_ too graceful for my liking,” she replied evenly, a bit of a bite in her tone, which would not have been there if it were under different circumstances.

Thorin’s eyes softened up. “At least we can agree on one thing,” he said, making her blink in surprise.

She was about to walk away when she remembered the dark spot on the floor before. “Another thing,” she said. “I found blood on the floors earlier, while you were on your way.” Hearing this, Thorin turned serious again. “Best have two people on the watches tonight. It wasn’t wolves that levelled this place.”

He nodded at her—whether in thanks or in understanding, she did not know. But she returned the gesture, before turning around and making way for her brother, who had already laid down his bedroll.

“Planning on sleeping early, are we?”

Elijah grinned. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m quite looking forward to supper. Bombur’s cooking rabbit stew.”

Fheon made a hungry sound from the back of her throat as she flattened out her bedroll. “I sincerely hope his cooking is as good as Hiram’s. Speaking of Hiram…” She frowned. “When was the last time you heard of him?”

Elijah thought for a moment, before saying, “Cali sent me one of his messages a few weeks back. He was just asking how the quest was turning out. Haven’t gotten one from him since.”

She sighed and sat down beside her brother. “You can’t help but miss the company.”

“Aye, have to agree with you on that one.”

* * *

 

Bombur’s rabbit stew did not disappoint. If Fheon closed her eyes and ignored the noises of the dwarves, she could have been sitting in the forests of the Shire, around the campfire with Hiram telling ghost stories. But she soon had to return to the present, and meet the eyes of a bumbling Bifur, who asked for her empty bowl.

She gave it to him and took a few swigs of her water, frowning when she found that it was almost empty and making a mental note to have the Company refill theirs at the first freshwater source they could find. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her. As Elijah continued eating, she let her ears hone in on a conversation not very far from them.

“He’s been gone a long time,” said Bilbo.

Bofur made a curious noise from the back of his throat. “Who?”

“Gandalf.”

“He’s a wizard! He does as he chooses. Here, do us a favor.” The dwarf handed Bilbo two bowls full of the rabbit stew and said, “Take this to the lads.”

Fheon could only presume that by ‘lads’ he meant Fili and Kili, for they were the only ones not by the campfire—except for Thorin, but he had been handed his share minutes ago. She watched Bilbo saunter off, away from the light of the fire, and then switched her gaze to her brother, who had been playing with her braid.

“What?” she exasperated softly.

“Your hair’s grown longer again.”

“ _Must_ I explain to you again how hair works—?”

“It’s never been this long before,” he interrupted stubbornly. “Not back at The Shire. Why are you letting it grow out?”

“Perhaps I like braiding it every morning and night,” she answered amusedly. “It’s _stress-relieving_.”

Her brother was quiet for a moment, before saying, “Maybe I should let my hair grow out too.”

Fheon chuckled. “You’ll have to learn how to braid first.” When she felt her braid loosen and come apart completely as he ran his fingers through it, she shot to her feet and leapt away. “ _No_ , I am _not_ letting you make a complete bird’s nest out of my hair.”

“But I thought you wanted me to learn!”

“Grow your hair out, and _then_ learn—by braiding your _own_ hair.”

“That’s no fun.” He crossed his arms and feigned sadness. For a while, Fheon stayed on her feet and stared down at her brother, amused at his attempts. But then she grew quite tired of the charade—as she had already been tired since the beginning of the day. She assumed a cross-legged position on her bedroll and combed out her long tresses. “Fine,” she said, caving in and whipping her hair behind her. “Learn then.”

Elijah hummed as he ran his fingers through her hair. “You’ll have to teach me, of course.”

“Divide the hair into three parts,” she ordered softly. “Make sure they’re even, alright? Good. Then cross the left bit _over_ the middle bit.”

“Am I supposed to let go of the others?”

“Wow, Elijah. I knew you were daft, but not _this_ much.”

She could hear the smile on his face when he said, “What’s next?”

“Cross the right bit over the middle bit.” He did so. “Then just repeat until you reach the end.”

For minutes on end, her brother weaved her hair as ungracefully as she had expected. He would ask, “Over?” and then Fheon would say “Yes”, and then only seconds afterwards would he ask again: “Over?” to which, she would, as patiently as she could, repeat her original answer.

Midway through his braiding, Fheon felt something vibrate against the heels of her feet. She lifted her leg and found nothing there, just the grass. However, when she placed her feet back down on the ground, the trembling was still there. She frowned.

“There!” said Elijah, his hands letting go of her hair. “Finished!”

Fheon brought a hand to the back of her head and felt the braid he had attempted. Several strands of hair were sticking out, and the tie he had made with her hair bond was a mess, but at least he got the initial idea of it, the pattern.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and smirked. “I did not know my brother was such a fast-learner.”

“Did I do well, then?”

“Keep practicing and I might just let you braid my hair every day.”

“Oh no,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “You’ll have to do that on your own. Soon, I will have my own long locks to braid.” He ran his fingers through his hair in a playful manner.

Fheon smiled, rather half-heartedly, and said nothing in reply, for she had registered that the quaking beneath her feet was not an animal or an object, but the ground itself. Alarmed, she scanned the clearing for a dwarf who was jumping up and down, but found none. She turned her head, opened her mouth to say something to Elijah, when her ears pricked upwards at the sound of a pony nickering quite loudly.

Elijah had heard as well. In a much louder voice compared to their recent hushed tones, he said, “Say, are Fili and Kili still watching the ponies?”

“Yes,” was Thorin’s gruff reply. He was sitting a few ways away from the campfire, enveloped in darkness. His bowl was still in his hands, the soup unfinished.

Fheon frowned. “I suppose Bilbo just got caught up with their shenanigans then—”

She was cut off by a noise that resounded all across the clearing. It wasn’t the ponies, this time; it sounded like a wolf barking except much more… _feral_.

Fheon shot to her feet the very same moment the rest of the Company did. Her eyes went to where the noise had come from, for it was now being followed with brusque screams, yet high-pitched at the same time, if that was even possible. Thorin grabbed his sword off the ground and ran for where Fili and Kili had been stationed.

The rest of the dwarves trailed after him like ants, and then Elijah. Fheon would have as well if her brother hadn’t pointed a finger at her and looked at her with serious eyes.

He said, “Watch the camp,” before running off into the night.

He had never— _never_ left her behind in a situation like this before. Furious, Fheon slapped her palm to the ground and stomped forward; about to make for them, but her common sense was able to break past her impatience. The whole thirteen of them were already there… plus Elijah… plus Bilbo…

She was starting to think that the whole problem would be solved in no time, when she remembered that the thirteen people there were _dwarves_. The creature that could have made the noise before sounded treacherous, and it was probably large enough to be causing the quaking of the ground that was still going on.

Whether or not Fheon would be able to help when she arrived at the scene, she did not know. But there was one other person who would, no doubt, know what to do.

“Where has that wizard gone off to?” she grumbled to herself as she left her position by the fire.

With an arrow nocked, she noiselessly trekked down the path the Company had come from that afternoon, knowing it was the road Gandalf had followed. Surely he had not gone very far, knowing the dwarves, and she was right. She found his towering figure sitting on a pile of boulders, not ten miles away, and called his name.

He looked over at her slowly, calmly, and then said, “Ah, I was just about to ask what the noise was about. Has Bombur been dancing again—?”

“Something’s gotten to the ponies,” Fheon explained hurriedly, “and I think to Fili and Kili as well. The dwarves have all gone there.”

Gandalf got to his feet immediately, already trailing back up the path. “Did they say what’s gotten to them?”

She shook her head. “I can’t be sure. It might be—”

A noise similar to the one they had heard before echoed from the woods to their left. Gandalf froze, finishing her statement: “Trolls.” He ran straight into the tree-line, brandishing his staff. “Come, I will need your help.”

“With what?”

“Distracting them!”

Without another word, Fheon followed him into the forest, returning the arrow into her quiver. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Myrtle running in the opposite direction. Behind her, three more ponies followed. It was not long after that before they heard the loud, rough voices of the trolls, accompanied by the soft spitting of a fire, and noisy grumbling of dwarves.

“They should be sautéed and grilled, with a sprinkle o’ sage.”

“Tha’ does sound quite nice.”

“Never mind the seasoning. We ain’t got all night! Dawn ain’t far away. Let’s get a move on! I don’t fancy bein’ turned to stone.”

Fheon stayed hidden behind a tree, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head. From where she was, she could see the backsides of the three trolls holding some of her dwarf friends over the spit. Past that was the rest of the Company, stuck in sacks—to be cooked in a later time. Her grip on her bow tightened when she saw her brother amidst the wriggling pile of dwarves.

“Wait!” Bilbo called. “You are making a _terrible_ mistake.”

“You can’t reason with them. They’re half-wits!” yelled Dori.

“Half-wits!” said Bofur. “What does that make us?”

“I meant with the, uh—with the seasoning,” Bilbo continued, hopping to his feet.

One of the trolls leaned down and looked at him seriously. “Wha’ about the seasoning?”

“Well, have you smelt them?”

Fheon caught on to what the burglar was going for, and smiled in approval. Beside her, Gandalf pointed to a large boulder to their left, the only thing that seemed to be separating the clearing from the cliffs beyond. She noticed the sky turning slightly purple and nodded to Gandalf, whispering, “Go. I’ll handle it if things go too far.”

The wizard nodded before weaving through the mess of trees and, not after long, disappeared. She returned her attention to the trolls.

“…the—the secret to cooking dwarf is,” Bilbo was saying. “Is, um…”

“Yes? Come on, tell us the secret.”

“It’s—it’s uh… _Yes_ , I’m _telling you_. The secret is… tooooo skin them first!” His statement was met with an uproar from the dwarves, swearing that they were going to skin _him_ when they escaped.

“Tom, get me filleting knife,” one of the trolls ordered.

“Wha’ a load of rubbish,” said another. “I’ve eaten plenty with their skins on. Scarf ‘em, I say, boots and all!”

“He’s right. Nothin’ wrong with a bit o’ raw dwarf,” the smallest troll agreed, before proceeding to pick Bombur up from the pile of dwarves, holding him above his mouth. “Nice and crunchy!”

“Not that one!” Bilbo shouted. “He—he’s infected!”

“Huh?!”

“You wha’?”

Bilbo nodded vigorously. “He’s got worms... in his tubes.”

The troll dropped Bombur immediately, and Fheon slunk back into the woods, making her way to the dwarves as Bilbo continued playing for time. Once she was close enough, she pressed herself against the rough trunk of a tree and carefully peeked out. The closest dwarf to her was Thorin, who lay at the head of the pile atop large roots. Bilbo had only recently stated that the dwarves were full of parasites, and now they were yelling at him again.

Aggravated, Fheon gave Thorin’s shoulder a quick swipe from behind the tree, and hissed, “Shut them up.”

She sensed him jump at the sound of her voice, and then there was a hard thud, followed by agreeing statements from the dwarves, yelling that they were riddled with worms.

“Where are your weapons?” Fheon whispered.

“They threw them away,” Thorin murmured in reply.

Then, seeing the largest troll start to walk for their pile, Fheon slunk deeper against the tree again, planting her bow on the ground. “Wha’ would you have us do then?” she heard the troll demand. “Let ‘em all go?” The irked tone was obvious in his voice and, hearing this, Fheon unsheathed her sword. “You think I don’t know wha’ you’re up to? This little ferret is takin’ us for fools!”

“Ferret?” was Bilbo’s small-voiced retort.

“Fools?” another troll said, before letting out a monstrous roar and swiping Bilbo off his feet.

Bilbo yelped in surprise, continuing to spout out nonsense about him being riddled with dung beetles and snakes and other vermin of the sort. But the troll did not repent, growling ever more fervently. And though Fheon wondered what was taking Gandalf so long, she saw this as the perfect time to spring into action. So she did.

Tightening her grip on her sword, she jumped out from behind the tree and quickly took note of the circumstances. The second largest troll held Bilbo above his opened maw; his two companions were still standing by the fire, far enough to be safe, but not enough to reassure Fheon.

She acted quietly, though the trolls were still surprised at her sudden appearance. She leapt onto the knee of Bilbo’s keeper and kicked upwards onto his arm. She swung her sword at his wrist, making sure it dug into the skin, no matter how deep.

The troll shouted, dropping Bilbo to swipe at her. She jumped onto his shoulder and slipped her leg beneath his ear, and then did the same with her other leg, occasionally swinging her sword to cut at the troll’s restless hand, swatting at her like she was a bee.

Fheon dug her sword deep into the troll’s shoulder, no doubt blunting the blade. The troll screeched in pain as she spoke in a low tone, addressing him as well as his companions: “If you make a move against me again, _this_ ”—she dug her blade deeper—“will go straight into your eye.”

The troll beneath her nodded his head vigorously, making her have to lean back so she wouldn’t be pushed off. “Good.” Ignoring the queasy feeling that had appeared in her stomach, she unsheathed her sword from the troll’s skin and wiped it on his head. It only occurred to her that it was a bad idea when a snarl ripped through the troll’s throat.

Faster than she could blink, his hand flew in from the side and swiped her clean off his neck. Her back collided with the rough bark of a tree, leaving her dazed and breathless. But before she could even slide to the ground, one of the trolls had her in his hand and was squeezing the life out of her.

He growled. “I’m gonna bite your head _clean off_ —”

“THE DAWN WILL TAKE YOU ALL!”

Her head snapped to the side, and she saw Gandalf standing atop the boulder he had pointed at before. Taking advantage of the temporary confusion of the trolls, he brought his staff down on the huge rock. A crack appeared before the stone separated, and light filled the clearing.

The troll holding onto Fheon dropped her. She landed painfully on her side, still blinking away the dots that had appeared in her vision. When they were all but gone, the groaning of the trolls stopped and she was met with the sight of giant, vaguely humanoid-shaped stones.

Cheers erupted from the dwarves behind Fheon. She gingerly picked herself up and back onto her feet. When she turned around, Thorin, Bilbo and Elijah were the only ones not rejoicing, only staring at her.

She regarded her brother and the Dwarf King with a peeved look, and then said to Bilbo, “You’re welcome.”


	6. Rhudaur IV

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Fheon swatted her brother’s hand away with a sigh. “Yes, I’m fine, Elijah.”

“That troll looked to be holding you rather tightly,” he continued, moving her arms here and there. “There aren’t any broken bones or anything, right? No sprains or bruises—”

“I said I’m _fine_ ,” she hissed, losing her patience and slapping the top of his hand, making him recoil. “I landed on the grass, not on a bloody spiked table.”

A frown made its way onto his face, and it looked genuine. He looked legitimately hurt by what she’d said, and she would have believed him if it wasn’t for the way his lower lip quivered. She gave his cheek a playful shove, and when he recovered, he was grinning. She smiled, adding, “And your horrendous braid did nothing to help, naturally.”

He laughed. “I’ll practice again tonight, don’t worry.”

_Tonight…_ She remembered exactly what time of day it already was, and frowned. “I suppose we won’t be getting any sleep until tonight, then.”

“Aye.” Elijah sighed, sharing in her despondency. They were the only two who had to travel on foot for the whole day.

Fheon knew that they would not have complained as such if they were allowed to ride horses as well. “Alas, we have to get the job done if we are to get paid and bring the gold back to Hiram, yes?”

Her brother grinned. “The things he would use that money for,” he mused, making Fheon smile.

“The first thing he would buy is rum. Definitely.”

“Before he purchases a fine dog, that is.”

“And then a woman of his own.”

“And then two more.”

They deliberated on the possibilities for a while longer, considerably easing the muscle pains Fheon had all over her body. She pulled her hood back and undid the braid, much to her brother’s feigned frustration. Opting to just simply pull her hair back with a normal tie, she glanced about and saw Thorin speaking with Gandalf. But he was also staring at her with a look in his eye that she could not decipher, which unnerved her greatly.

She returned his gaze with a blank look, but was the first to look away. None too soon, apparently, for Elijah’s joke about Hiram was interrupted by Gandalf walking over to them, the Dwarf King close behind him.

“Fheon, Elijah,” said the wizard. “Did you happen to see a cave not far from here?”

Fheon shook her head, and Elijah replied, “Sad to say we did not, Gandalf. Why?”

“Mountain trolls do not venture this far south, my boy,” said Gandalf. “They must have come down from the Ettenmoors, but couldn’t have done so with daylight. They needed a path from the mountains to lead them here, a grotto of sorts.”

As her brother shook his head again, Fheon’s eyes flickered to the side and met Thorin’s for the third time that morning. He raised an eyebrow, and a shadow of a smile crossed her face. Without looking away from him, she said, “I spotted a hollow a few ways west from here, just veering a little off from the path we took yesterday. That could be the one.”

“We’ll have to check,” said Gandalf, and then, seeming to notice the way she and Thorin were still staring at each other, looked from one to the other before dismissing himself. Thorin followed not soon after, to tell Bilbo and the others what was about to happen. Fheon finally tore her gaze away from him to be met with her brother’s sceptic eyes.

“Unless the two of you can somehow talk to each other mentally,” he said, “No, I don’t understand what just happened.”

She smirked. “Call it His Majesty’s temporary gratefulness.”

* * *

 

Indeed, at the directions Fheon had stated, they found a large hole in the ground.

Not like the hobbit holes which were found in The Shire, but a wide, dug-up hole oozing a foul smell that too closely resembled rotting animal flesh. The roots of the plants and trees above it could be seen hanging from above, like worms… or snakes. As Fheon held her breath and took the first step inside, she could see hundreds of stolen items left to decay in the ground: wheels, drums, jars… most of which were too deteriorated to identify.

Elijah trailed closely behind his sister, taking in the sight with disgust. He and Fheon had their bows drawn, cautiously staring at the dark abyss that lay before them, for the tunnel did not end somewhere near from there. It travelled on and on and on—with Gandalf’s assumption, all the way north to the Ettenmoors.

Fheon found two torches sitting amidst the pile of junk. They were decaying and brittle, but they would hold. They were not going to be used for long anyway. She presented them to Thorin, explaining, “We do not have oil.”

“We will make do,” he replied simply, handing one torch to Ori, and keeping the other for himself.

Fheon nodded just as Gandalf said, “It’s a troll-hoard.” (As if she did not know that already.) “Be careful what you touch.”

Her eyes trailed over to where her brother was kneeling by a dusty skeleton, his hand straying far too close to the pendant on the skeleton’s neck. He raised his head and, smiling innocently, pulled his hand back.

Fheon admired the treasures in the cave from afar, not finding anything that particularly caught her interest; until her foot caught on something, nearly sending her tumbling down the darker part of the tunnel. Regaining her footing, she glanced down and saw a taut string penetrating through the thick sheet of dried leaves. Frowning, she leaned down and pulled it up, and was surprised to find that she had discovered the decayed remains of a bow.

It was a beautiful thing, with smoothly curved limbs and pointed tips. The grip was smooth, almost soft, but when Fheon gripped it in her hands, she found that it would not slip easily, even with sweaty palms. Yet she dared not pull the string back, afraid that the groove would break and destroy such a beauty. She positioned the bow by the wall, gently dusting off the dirt on its limbs before standing up again.

Suddenly, Gandalf appeared behind her. “It is an Elven bow,” he said quietly. “But indeed, too far beyond repair. It would be best to leave it.”

Fheon noticed the dusty sword in his free hand, but did not ask about it. Judging from its size alone, she could discern that he planned to give it to Bilbo. About time too, she thought. The hobbit needed a weapon of his own if he was going to protect himself from more mountain trolls.

From the entrance, she heard Thorin ordering the Company to exit the tunnel. She returned to the daylight outside, watching from the corner of her eye as Gandalf approached Bilbo and as the two of them spoke in low tones. She had been so single-minded in listening in on the conversation that she nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand squeezed her shoulder.

“Thinking about something?” Elijah asked, stepping up to stand beside her.

“No,” she said. “I think the exhaustion may be getting to me.”

“If you can’t take it anymore, just say the word and I’ll throw Thorin off his pony and place you on the saddle myself.”

She smiled half-heartedly. “Funny.”

She was about to say more when a familiar red-tailed hawk swooped into her line of sight.

Caligula emitted a jarring screech, nearly making Fheon pass out in the process, and then disappeared once more behind the trees. Fheon glanced at her brother confusingly, only to find that he was just as clueless as her. The Company were staring after the hawk, mumbling amongst themselves about how she was going to give away their position, when Cali screeched again, though from a much farther place. This was followed by the rustling of leaves in the underbrush not very far from Thorin.

Alarmed, Fheon ordered Bilbo to unsheathe his sword, remembering Gandalf saying that it would glow blue when orcs or goblins were nearby. Yet when the hobbit unsheathed it, it remained silvery white.

The first that broke through the underbrush were two large, brown rabbits. They were followed by another pair, and then another, and then another—all tied to this flesh-toned sleigh that looked to be made out of tree bark. Riding on this sleigh was a hunched-over old man, who had a brown beard, wore brown robes, brown hat, and brown boots. He was shouting bloody murder but eventually brought his sleigh to a stop.

It did not come as a surprise to Fheon when Gandalf knew this person, and when the name that escaped his mouth was the one she had been expecting as well.

“Radagast,” the wizard exclaimed. “It’s Radagast the Brown.”

Swiftly, Fheon returned the arrow she had instinctively nocked to her quiver, hearing Elijah behind her do the same. A second afterward, the dwarves sheathed their swords and dropped their axes to their sides.

Fheon turned her attention to the two wizards and found them speaking softly, almost as if they did not want anyone else to hear. But she did.

“I was looking for you, Gandalf,” said Radagast. “Something’s wrong. Something’s _terribly_ wrong.”

A serious look crossed Gandalf’s aged face. “Yes?”

Radagast opened his mouth, holding up a finger, but then said nothing. He brandished his finger, saying, “Oh!” and then slunk back into an expression of deep thought. “Just give me a minute,” he mumbled. A memory crossed Fheon’s mind, one of Bilbo asking about the Brown Wizard and asking if he was a ‘great wizard’ or if he was more like Gandalf. Fheon regarded the eight brown rabbits sniffing at the air and tied to a wooden sleigh, which was bound together by vines; she concluded that Radagast was neither a great wizard nor like Gandalf. He was simply… different.

“Oh,” said Radagast. “I had a thought and now I’ve lost it! It was right there on the tip of my tongue!” He frowned, and then curved his tongue as he spoke his next words. “Oh, it’s not a thought at all. It’s a silly old stick insect!”

Gandalf removed the stick insect from Radagast’s mouth and placed it onto the other wizard’s palm.

A quiet, peculiar sound escaped Bilbo’s throat, nearly making Fheon break out in laughter.

* * *

 

Gandalf requested to speak alone with Radagast, stating that their conversation would have nothing to do with the quest for Erebor. Thorin was reluctant to agree, and Fheon even more so, but she put her temptation to rest by sitting on a log as far away from the two wizards as could be.

She distracted herself as best as she could, counting how many arrows she had left before borrowing a whetstone from Fili and beginning to sharpen her sword—for she had been right about the troll skin being thick, causing the edges to blunt.

For a while, she concentrated on returning her sword back to perfect condition. Beside her, Elijah kept a jumpy Cali on his thigh, placing the ends of his cloak beneath her feet for added protection.

She had been restless the whole time they sat there, giving out the occasional wail, even when Elijah was stroking her feathers. She clawed at his leg continuously until such a time came when he was forced to let her fly again. She let out another screech before disappearing past the tree line. Elijah stared after her, frowning.

“I wonder what’s wrong with her—”

He was cut off by a spine-tingling howl that rippled through the clearing.

Fheon was on her feet in a millisecond. She dropped Fili’s whetstone onto the ground and left it there, forgetting about it the same moment she sheathed her sword. She drew her bow and followed Elijah to stand by the already-armed dwarves. The Rangers were the only ones who had the idea of standing together, it seemed; for the dwarves remained scattered about the clearing, glancing about with their weapons in hand.

Urgently, Fheon pressed Bilbo to stand behind her and her brother. He did not argue, but only said in an alarmed tone, “Wolves? Are there wolves out there?”

“Wolves?” quietly said Bofur. “No, that is not a wolf.”

A low growling sound registered above and behind them.

“Elijah!” Fheon shouted. He responded instantly by whirling around and releasing his arrow into a warg that had been looming on the cliffside above them.

It yelped, snapping its jaws, but even a shot in the eye had not been able to kill it. The warg fell into the clearing. Fheon had to pull Bilbo aside so he would not be crushed beneath the creature’s weight. The dwarves axed the fallen warg, yet their blades did not penetrate through the skin quickly enough.

Another warg appeared behind Thorin, who was still struggling to tug his sword out of the first warg’s fur. He glanced behind him, yelling for Kili to get his bow. Fheon was faster. She shot an arrow into its eye, sending it tumbling into the clearing. Dwalin finished it off with a blow to the head with his axe. The animal stilled.

“Warg scouts,” said Thorin, finally being able to pull his blade out, “which means an Orc pack is not far behind.” Fheon followed her brother to the wargs’ corpses, but their arrows were not retrievable.

“ _Orc pack_?” said Bilbo, sounding more astonished than afraid.

“Who did you tell about your quest beyond your kin?” Gandalf demanded, stepping up to Thorin.

“No one,” the dwarf replied.

“ _Who did you tell_?”

“No one, I swear!” He turned and met the eyes of everyone else—“What in Durin’s name is going on?”—before finally meeting Fheon’s.

Still kneeling by the lifeless warg, she stated, “You are being hunted.”

“We have to get out of here,” said Dwalin.

“We can’t!” said Ori. Fheon had not noticed that he hadn’t been in the clearing with them until that moment. She raised her head and found him sliding down the small hill to their right, alongside Bifur. “We have no ponies. They bolted!”

A chorus of barks, followed by several more warg howls, echoed in the distance, though not far enough to reassure Fheon. She straightened as Radagast said (in a rather bold tone), “I’ll draw them off.”

“These are Gundabad Wargs,” Gandalf said in dismissal. “They will outrun you.”

“And _these_ are Rhosgobel Rabbits,” Radagast retorted, pointing over his shoulder to the series of brown-furred animals tapping their large feet on the ground. He garnered a brave look. “I’d like to see them try.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Fheon snapped. “Radagast will draw them off. Gandalf, do you have an escape route in mind?”

“No.”

Bilbo and the dwarves let out exasperations. Fheon scowled. “Fine, you will still lead the way. But we _cannot_ stay here. Radagast, lead them out as far as you can. We will run in a group, as far as the other side if Rhudaur if we must.”

“Let us only hope that it won’t be necessary,” grimly added Gandalf.

Radagast once again mounted his sleigh and was off in seconds, disappearing behind the underbrush. The dwarves filed themselves in a pack, with Gandalf at the head and Thorin leading in the back. Fheon and Elijah stood close to Gandalf, bows drawn, with Bilbo behind them.

Once the wargs’ movement was as far as it could go, Gandalf led them out of the tree-line and into the open field beyond. They ran to a rock jutting out of the ground; there were several of these, and they recognized these as beneficiary for their deadly journey across the pasture.

Feral warg noises came in from behind them, and Fheon sensed them getting closer. So did her brother, and so did Gandalf. The wizard halted beside a boulder. They watched the warg pack run past them a few miles out, chasing Radagast.

Fheon narrowed her eyes at their Orc riders. A feeling of malice gathered in her stomach.

“Move,” Gandalf muttered. “Move!”

They turned back and began running the opposite direction, and this was when Fheon realized that they would not be finding refuge in the woods again very soon. They had no chance of running straight ahead to the forests by Hollin.

In minutes, their single-file group had broken apart, the organized-air of it all being lost to chaos and panic. As they were passing by a large boulder, Elijah stopped Fheon from running out further, therefore stopping the entire Company. She saw why: Radagast and the warg pack were running past them, over the hill, once more.

One dwarf stumbled past her and her hand shot out to grab his pack, just in time—barely.

“Get back,” she hissed, seeing that it was Ori, a fear-stricken look on his face. She returned him to the dwarves, hoping that they could offer him some sort of safety.

As Gandalf issued the Company past him and to the next boulder ahead of them, Elijah muttered to the dwarves shooting past, “Stay together.”

Fheon ran up from beside him to the front of the Company—seeing that they only had Kili as an archer—which left Gandalf, Thorin, and her brother to guard the back. She sprinted towards the nearest sarsen overhead. Seeing that the warg pack was still far enough, she decided to stop them by the farther pillar instead—which was, as it happened, a coincidentally good idea.

Only seconds after she had stopped the dwarves beneath the pillar, she heard the unmistakable growl of a warg. Peeking out from the rock, she saw that it was above them. She heard the subtle sound of a bow being drawn and glanced beside her to see Kili looking at her expectantly.

She pointed at herself and mouthed, _Orc._ He mouthed, _Warg._ At an agreement, Fheon drew her bow, whispering beneath her breath. “One, two—THREE.”

They sprung from their positions beneath the cover of their rock. Fheon took a moment to aim at the orc’s forehead before releasing her arrow. The orc fell from atop the boulder, followed by the warg. She saw Kili’s green arrows sprouting from its shoulder, and cursed.

The warg regained its footing, snapping its jaws violently. Gloin, Dwalin, Oin, and Bifur surged forward, hacking at the animal. It released ear-piercing yelps and yaps, which echoed all across the field.

As soon as the warg stopped moving, she pulled the four dwarves back and shouted to the others, “Go! Run!”

She glanced over her shoulder and yelled for Gandalf, checking that Elijah was in one piece before running after the Company. Warg howls and Black Speech reverberated all around them, and Fheon was positive that the pack had honed in on their location.

“There they are!” Gloin yelled, pointing overhead to three or four wargs running in their direction. Yet Fheon was sure that the entirety of the pack was behind them.

Gandalf ran up from behind her and pointed to their left. “This way!” he said. “Quickly!”

They followed him down a shallow valley, which unfortunately did not shield them from the eyes of the orcs. Fheon stopped at the sight of four wargs waiting a few miles ahead, only turning to find three more closing in behind them.

“There’s more coming!” Kili yelled from their right. Behind him, half a dozen wargs ran into view.

“SHOOT THEM!” she shouted, pulling Bilbo back and stepping forward in his place. She shot volleys of arrows into the wargs south of the Company, quickly emptying her quiver. It took at least three arrows to kill off a single warg, and then another for the Orc—that was if she did not miss. Behind her and to her left, Elijah and Kili were doing the same. The dwarves had formed a semi-circle, standing ready with their weapons.

“We’re surrounded!” Fili yelled. Fheon killed another orc.

“Where’s Gandalf?” Dori demanded, running to take arms beside Nori.

“He’s abandoned us,” said Dwalin. Fheon used another four arrows to down one of the larger wargs.

Beside her, Nori used his slingshot to hit a warg that was close enough in the eye. The warg shook its head, annoyed but unfazed; it growled. Its rider emitted a dreadful noise from the back of his throat, baring his teeth in what must have been a sneer.

Scowling, Fheon drew her bow and shot her arrow in-between the orc’s eyes. He fell from his warg. Fheon reached into her quiver again, about to finish off the warg as well. Her confidence dissipated when she felt that she had no more arrows.

Wildly, she looked to her brother, but found that he was too far away. She cursed herself for not stuffing her quiver fully, like he had. Scowling, she slipped her bow over her shoulder and unsheathed her short sword. She quickly took her place amongst the dwarves, joining their circle as the warg pack closed in on them.

As she glared a warg down and brandished her sword, a sound of rocks rubbing together came from behind them, followed by Gandalf’s voice: “This way, you fools!”

Fheon looked over her shoulder and found him standing within a bed of rocks jutting out of the ground. His lower body could not be seen, almost as if there was an opening beneath him…

She pushed the dwarves who were beside her back, not caring who they were. They ran for Gandalf and she, knowing a sword such as hers would not be effective against a warg, whirled around and thundered after them. Thorin stood above the entrance, filing in his kin first.

_He better be counting,_ Fheon thought.

When all the dwarves were inside the opening—save Thorin—Fheon glanced down. She was about to jump in when she noticed that her brother was not inside. She heard the sound of an arrow being released and turned around to find Elijah still out in the open.

“ELIJAH!”

He sprinted towards her, wildly gesturing for her to slip into the entrance. Behind him, Fheon saw the warg pack racing down the hill.

“GO, FHEON!” Elijah yelled, and this time she did as he asked. She jumped onto the opening-rock and slid down the expanse of it, ignoring the burning sensation it caused on her back.

She scrambled to her feet and waited underneath the entrance, staring upwards. She called for her brother once, and then twice; and she was about to do so a third time when the light coming from above was blocked out by Elijah’s form. He slid down the shaft, closely followed by Thorin, making it so that they all but landed on top of each other.

Fheon sighed in relief, seeing her brother unharmed and in one piece. She helped him up, and he was barely on his feet when she smiled and said, “No broken bones? No sprains or bruises?”

“Very funny.” He grinned and brushed himself off, before looking to the dwarves—actually, to one dwarf in particular. “Thank you,” he said to Thorin, “for waiting for me.”

The King Under the Mountain nodded at Elijah, and then looked to Fheon. Biting the inside of her cheek, she echoed, “Thank you,” though in a much more silent tone.

A ghost of a smile crossed his face, but he turned away too soon. She was not able to see whether the smirk was real or not.


	7. Rivendell I

The orc that had fallen into the chute had been killed with an Elven arrow into the neck.

Above, in the field they had been on only minutes ago, a patrol of elves were slaughtering the remaining orcs Fheon, Elijah, Kili and Thorin had failed to slay. And where an elven patrol was roaming, their land was sure to be close by; yet it seemed neither Thorin nor the dwarves knew this, for they ventured deeper into the pathway, seemingly clueless as to where it led.

Gandalf followed wordlessly, and Fheon knew that he knew where they were headed. He had been trying to coax Thorin into accepting his suggestion, to garner aid from the elves. Of course he would stay quiet.

While walking through the moldy, narrow tunnel, Elijah quietly counted how many arrows he had left: ten. He handed half of it to Fheon, who accepted them gratefully.

“You know where we’re headed,” she murmured to him. “It is possible we could visit the fletcher here. The journey ahead is still long.”

He nodded. “Aye.”

The tunnel finally ended, widening at the end and letting both Dwalin and Bofur pass at the same time. Thorin noisily pressed the end of his axe to the ground, scowling, and the Rangers’ assumptions were right.

In front of them lay a territory of the elves, with structures built graciously atop the rough landscape of the mountainside, and pure streams flowing through and out the channels of the city, down to the rivers below. Fheon and Elijah had only heard of its beauty from Hiram, who had stated that, once when he was just a trainee, he had been taken to this foreign country, even introduced to the high elves here. Fheon never thought she would be able to see the city with her own eyes, but here they stood, given a clear view of it.

“The Valley of Imladris,” said Gandalf, somberly walking out onto the overhang with them. “In the common tongue, it’s known by another name.”

“Rivendell,” Bilbo finished in a quiet voice.

“Here lies the Last Homely House East of the Sea.”

Fheon watched as an angry Thorin stepped up to the wizard. “This was your plan all along: to seek refuge with our enemy.”

“You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield,” said Gandalf, looking down at him sternly. “The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself.”

“You think the elves will give our quest their _blessing_? They will try to stop us.”

“Of course they will. But we have questions that need to be answered.” At this, the irritation on Thorin’s face seemed to dissipate, and he bowed his head, as if ashamed. Fheon eyed him curiously as Gandalf continued, “If we are to be successful, this will need to be handled with tact, and respect, and no small degree of charm—which is why you will leave the talking to me.”

Thorin nodded again, before walking back to his kin and muttering explanations to them. Gandalf turned to Bilbo and the Rangers then, as if just realizing they had been there all along, and clapped Fheon and Elijah on their shoulders. “Very good work with the orcs,” he said, before pointing at the older of the two. “But next time, don’t worry your sister.”

“I’ll try,” said Elijah, laughing. As soon as the wizard was far enough away, he muttered, “No promises,” intentionally letting Fheon hear. She did not smile.

They watched Gandalf take his place at the head of the group and start leading them down the path veering off the overhang. It was a steep and even more tapered pathway; Fheon found herself looking down at her feet as they walked, afraid she would miss a subtle turn and slip off the side. Her brother was incessant with his joking, constantly prodding at her side and making her jump—which frightened her to no extents.

And the elves, it seemed, liked making their pathways narrow and borderless, for even at the entrance did Fheon not find a single wall that could keep her from falling over the edge. Raising her head, she found two elven guards standing watch atop a stone staircase, staring ahead, never blinking, it seemed. Even from afar, she could see how flawless they were.

Suddenly feeling conscious, she redid her hair into a neater plait and elbowed Elijah, murmuring that he make himself more presentable.

“You’re serious?” he said, smiling.

“It is the first time the elves are to meet us,” she replied hastily. “Do you really want them to remember you as the man who had a sweat-drenched face and hair that resembled a bird’s nest?”

So he rubbed his face clean and ran a hand across his hair, slicking it back; and not a moment too soon. A male elf appeared from behind the guards, walking down the staircase with unpracticed grace. His hair was dark and long, his face smooth (as elves were known for), he wore purple robes made of a thick kind of material, and he wore an intricate circlet on his head.

“ _Mithrandir_ ,” he called softly, and as he came closer to them, Fheon noticed his pointed ears peeking out from his hair.

Gandalf turned around. “Ah, Lindir.”

Lindir placed his hand on his chest and gestured to Gandalf, bowing slightly, in what seemed to be an Elven sign of… respect, perhaps? Fheon watched on with mixed feelings as Lindir spoke in what she could only presume to be Elvish, but was thankful when Gandalf replied in the common-tongue. He said, “I must speak with Lord Elrond.”

“My Lord Elrond is not here,” said Lindir.

“Not here?” Gandalf frowned. “Where is he?”

Just then, the sound of a horn being blown rang across the city. It was the same horn they had heard when they were still in the tunnels, just having escaped the warg pack. Recognition flooded through Fheon as she and the others turned around to find a troop of horses trotting down the same cement path they had been on.

Fheon could see that they were armed, but she knew that they were not hostile. Thorin was too prideful to; he yelled for everyone to close ranks. Sighing exasperatedly, Fheon and Elijah stepped back as the dwarves pressed themselves into a tight circle. She found Bilbo in the very middle, and pursed her lips unhappily.

The mounted elves circled the dwarves, looking like centurions—which they most likely were. Meanwhile, the dwarves had started snarling at the elves, no doubt further polluting the bad reputation they already had with the Fair Folk.

“Gandalf!” one of the mounted elves said. He wore a similar circlet to the one Lindir had.

“Lord Elrond,” said Gandalf, before doing the gesture Lindir had done to him earlier on.

Unsure of what to do, Fheon looked to her brother and found him standing straight, with his hands at his sides and his head bowed. With uncertainty she refused to show, Fheon resumed the same posture and kept her eyes on her feet.

Elrond said one or two lines in Elvish, statements she did not understand, before resuming to speak in common-tongue. “Strange for orcs to come so close to our borders,” he said. “Something—or _someone_ has drawn them near.”

“Ah, that may have been us,” said Gandalf, before subtly gesturing to the dwarves. They met his statement begrudgingly, Thorin most of all. Stepping forward, he glared at Elrond as if they were the worst of enemies. Fheon supposed that that was the case, indeed.

“Welcome, Thorin, son of Thrain,” said Lord Elrond.

“I do not believe we have met,” Thorin replied.

“You have your grandfather’s bearing. I knew Thror when he ruled Under the Mountain.”

“Indeed?” The contempt was clear in the dwarf’s voice, this time. “He made no mention of _you_.”

If Elrond was insulted, he hid it well. The next words that came out of his mouth were in Elvish, and Gloin did not react particularly well to this. “What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?” he demanded, which was met by the dwarves’ similar outbursts. Fheon sighed inwardly.

“No, master Gloin, he’s offering you food,” Gandalf explained impatiently. Beside him, Elrond’s lip turned up in an amused smile.

The dwarves all huddled together and murmured to themselves, and Fheon was able to discern that they were deciding whether they were hungry enough to eat Elvish food or not. At the end of it, Gloin said, “Well, in that case, lead on.”

Elrond, still smiling, gestured for Lindir to come forward. He muttered something into the young elf’s ear, before addressing the Company, “Lindir will lead you to our dining hall. I will follow there shortly.”

As the dwarves trailed up the stairs and after Lindir, Fheon glanced at her brother questioningly: should they follow or no? He tilted his head slightly to meet her eyes, and looked at her almost expectantly. Before she could ask further, she saw Lord Elrond walking towards them, and returned her attention to her feet.

“ _Mae govannen,_ Rangers,” said Lord Elrond. “ _Gi nathlam hí._ ” At this, even Elijah raised his head slightly, eyebrows arched in question.

Gandalf answered for them, saying, “They are yet to learn the Elvish tongue, Lord Elrond. My apologies.” Fheon wondered if they were _supposed_ to learn Elvish.

“Oh, nonsense. No apologies are needed, Gandalf,” Elrond softly replied. “Well met, Rangers of the North.”

“Well met, Lord Elrond,” Elijah said.

The two people in front of them went quiet for a long moment, and Fheon raised her eyes slightly to find the corners of their eyes crinkled in amusement. “Oh, do straighten up, the both of you,” Gandalf ordered, the smile clear in his voice. Slowly, Fheon raised her head and let it stay that way, and was met with the face of Lord Elrond.

“Indeed, it is wiser for a man to show respect in his actions than have none in his words,” he said. “The brother and his sister—one of the very few female Rangers in history… Tales of you have reached even elven ears, though I had not known of your beauty until now.”

Fheon smiled wryly. “Thank you, Lord Elrond.”

“What are your names?”

“I am Fheon.”

“And I am Elijah.”

As they started walking to where she presumed was the dining hall, he asked, “Tell me: why have you accompanied Thorin Oakenshield?”

“We act as their scouts,” Elijah said. “We heard that dwarves were not particularly bright, though we knew that they were Free People. And—”

“Rangers protect the Free People,” Elrond finished, making Elijah smile.

“Yes. We have protected them during our journey here, hunted for them, eaten with them. Fheon and I have learned much about dwarves during these past ten months than we ever could have reading books about them for seven years. It is enlightening.”

“And why, may I ask, has the son of Thrain chosen to journey here?” said Lord Elrond; and up until that moment, Fheon had been impressed with her brother’s attempts at avoiding the subject of their quest. “I know for a fact that he has despised elves ever since the event with Erebor and Azanulbizar, and yet he organizes a gathering of his kin, a hobbit, and two Dunedain Rangers to venture for seven months to an Elven house. Forgive me, but none of this makes much sense to me.”

Elijah grew silent. From the corner of her eye, Fheon noticed Gandalf’s eyes on her. “My sincerest apologies, Lord Elrond,” she hurriedly said, “but it is not for me to tell.”

“Perhaps,” said Elrond, and then was quiet for the rest of the trip to the dining hall.

“Kind of you to invite us,” Gandalf said when they arrived. “We are not really dressed for dinner.”

“Well, you never are,” Elrond replied, to which the wizard chuckled.

The dining hall was not much of a ‘hall’ as it was another circular cement platform overlooking the city. In the middle, a long table had been placed, where the dwarves sat. Standing tall several feet away from them were musicians; elves playing harps and flutes, surrounding the vicinity with a peaceful air. Fheon loosened up.

At the table, the food that had been lain out were all vegetables and plant-based. Though she had expected this, Fheon was hoping for meat. It had been a while since she had eaten a full meal, but there were goblets of wine, so she forced herself to be satisfied with these.

An elf brought her a chair and politely seated her across her brother, who was attended to by a female elf. He flashed his teeth at her, but she only bowed before walking away. He threw a pout over to Fheon, who only rolled her eyes. She kept her silence throughout the meal, somberly munching on the greens on the table and sipping from her wine.

She had been seated beside Thorin; beside him was Lord Elrond, seated at the head of the table, with Gandalf at his right hand. Beneath the table, Elijah kept rocking his foot up and down, a habit he already had when they were still much younger. Often times, his foot would hit her knee, and she would kick his leg in return.

“I recognize those runes,” Elrond suddenly said midway through the meal, his eyes on Thorin’s sword. “They are Elvish, are they not?”

“They are,” Gandalf replied, and then nodded to Thorin. The Dwarf King handed his sword, along with its sheath, to Elrond.

The elf pulled out two inches of the blade, examining it and its sheath in his hands. “This is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver,” he said, “A famous blade forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin. May it serve you well.”

Thorin half-heartedly bowed his head at Elrond’s words, though a glint of interest had appeared in his eyes as he placed his sword on his lap and looked down at it.

Meanwhile, Gandalf had handed his own sword to the elf lord, who repeated the actions he did with Orcrist. “And this is Glamdring, the Foehammer, sword of the King of Gondolin,” he said. “These were made for the Goblin Wars of the First Age. How did you come by these?”

Gandalf took his sword back from Elrond—who had offered—and said, “We found them in a troll-hoard on the Great East Road, shortly before we were ambushed by orcs.”

“And what were you doing on the Great East Road?” Elrond inquired, sounding more suspicious, now.

Thorin straightened up, his eyes suddenly turning cold as he returned the elf’s gaze. It was Gandalf who answered; however, his reply was not much of an answer, it was more of a request. “I think it would be best to speak of this at a different time, Lord Elrond.”

“Why?” Elrond retorted, but the wizard only raised a condescending eyebrow. “Fine,” said the elf lord, huffing slightly. “I will approach you about this matter tonight. In the meantime, I think some accommodations are in order. We will show you to your rooms shortly.”

Fheon did not know they were staying overnight, but she was relieved that they were. A good night’s sleep was what she was looking forward to, a hearty meal in the morning, not having to worry about wargs tracking them down or an orc pack coming to kill them. Across the table, the glee was evident on Elijah’s face. And though Thorin’s grip on his sword tightened, he accepted Elrond’s offer, and Fheon was thankful.

* * *

 

The first thing she did was request a warm bath.

She had been given a room, with drapes covering her from the people who could see into her balcony, a soft bed with feather pillows, a mirror, and her very own lavatory. There was an elf maid who readied the bath for her, pouring scalding hot water from a bucket and into the tub, checking if it was the perfect temperature.

When she was finished, she exited the bathroom and smiled charmingly at Fheon, telling her the bath was ready. But apparently, elves were used to having the maids watch them bathe. Fheon had to tell the helper off, which she would not have had to do in regular inns. It only further proved her statement to Thorin; about elves being “a fancy, condescending race” that was “ _much_ too graceful”.

In a drowsy state, Fheon placed her bow and quiver on the foot of her bed, along with her belt and sword, and then pulled her dirt-caked boots off. In the bathroom, she shed the rest of her clothes and her cloak and folded them neatly; leaving them on the floor by the door so she would not forget to have them washed.

The bloody rag in her pants, however, she rolled up into a tiny ball and threw into the trash. Only in her sweat-stained compress, now, she peeled that off as well before finally sinking herself into the water. When she did, an involuntary sigh escaped her lips.

The water was absolutely pristine, seeming to seep through her skin to warm her to the bone. She slinked deeper into the water until she was neck-deep in it, and then, in her exhaustion, she allowed her eyelids to droop closed.

_Five minutes,_ she thought to herself. _No one will look for me, anyway…_

* * *

 

It was a dreamless sleep. When her eyes snapped open, the light streaming into the room from the balcony was moonshine. How long had she been asleep?

Blinking rapidly, Fheon stood up and looked down at the filthy water in disgust. She let herself drip the excess liquids off her body for a minute before stepping out of the tub, grabbing the towel that the maid had placed on the floor.

Because she had not actually _cleaned_ herself yet, only sat in the water, she soaked the towel with fresh, cool water from the faucet and rubbed the dirt off her body. Ultimately, the towel was able to get all the dirt off, but by then was too filthy for her to use again. She folded it and left it on the floor by the tub, deciding that she was dry _enough_ , albeit not completely.

To her surprise, her grimy clothes had been replaced by a clean white tunic, a grey over-shirt, and pants; even her soiled chest wrapping was gone, exchanged by a much purer one. Seeing her cloak not amidst the pile, however, she hoped that the rest of her clothing had only been taken to get cleaned, not taken forever.

Hurriedly, Fheon started wrapping the compress around her chest, for judging by the light of the moon, it was already well into the evening.

She came across a slight problem with the pants they had left for her, given that it was that time of the month. In the end, she took out a fresh towel from one of the drawers and ripped it into a smaller piece using her blood-stained sword. It was not comfortable, but it had to do; the pants were dark, thankfully. She slipped the white tunic over her head, and was just tying the laces of her new over-shirt together when someone knocked on her door.

She hastily finished with the cords before opening the door, revealing her freshened-up older brother.

“Sister!” he said, opening his arms to her. “You look much better; _all_ the elves will be speaking of your beauty now!”

Rolling her eyes, Fheon replied, “The same goes for you, Elijah. Give it a few months and that elven woman you’ve been ogling all day might just request for your hand in marriage.”

“If only.”

Smiling slightly, she asked, “What is it you want, brother?”

“Lord Elrond asked for me to call you to supper,” he said.

“It’s that late already?” she mumbled, more to herself than to him. Nonetheless, she gave herself a final once-over in the mirror before unstrapping her sword from her belt that lay on the bed and instead tying it to one of the loops on her pants.

“Why are your hands so wrinkled?” Elijah silently asked as they walked down the moonlit halls of Rivendell.

“I fell asleep in the bath,” she muttered in reply, to which he chuckled.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, “Same thing happened to me.” Fheon glanced at his fingers and found the skin on them creased, just as hers was. She smiled, wondering if he had been asleep as long as she had.

Further on, she noticed that Elijah was not leading her through the same halls it took to the dining hall. Confused, she opened her mouth to ask where they were going when she noticed the faint darkness of the hallway being disrupted by firelight.

The sounds of dwarves chattering loudly reached her ears far sooner than the smell of meat did. She and Elijah walked closer until they found the Company huddled around a campfire in one of the isolated sections of the building. A pot had been placed on the fire to cook, and if everything was much more serious, Fheon would have suspected that they had never arrived at Rivendell at all. That she was just dreaming.

But the atmosphere in the chamber was mirthful—and noisy. Bombur, for some reason, was sitting on an ornately-carved table with thin legs. Just as Fheon and Elijah were walking into the chamber, Bofur suddenly threw a sausage at Bombur. The large dwarf caught it, and then looked down at himself in alarm. The table beneath him creaked loudly before giving way to his weight. He landed on his bum and the food on his plate fell onto him.

Elijah’s hand shot up in the air, and Fheon saw that he had caught the sausage Bombur had let go of. He took a bite out of it, looking down at her haughtily. Smirking, Fheon got plates for both of them and they sat down with the dwarves.

During one of the few lulls in the multiple conversations, Fheon noticed something and softly asked, “Where’s Thorin?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” said Kili, and then looked to Fili. “Brother, do you know where our dear uncle has been hiding?”

“Afraid not, brother,” said Fili, and then the two of them just started laughing uncontrollably.

Fheon came to the conclusion that dwarves did not need to be drinking to be drunk; they were the only people she knew who could get drunk simply on their merrymaking, aside from her brother. As she was standing up to refill her goblet with water, footsteps echoed behind them, which were quickly followed by Thorin’s booming voice.

“Bilbo, Balin, Elijah,” he said, “Come with me.”

“What?” said Bilbo, though he was already slowly getting on his feet. “Why?”

Thorin did not reply, only turned around and strode back down the hall.

Elijah handed his unfinished plate of food to Fheon, muttering quickly to her, “The Company goes first,” before rushing after the Dwarf King. He was followed by Balin, and then Bilbo. Fheon stared after her brother anxiously, setting their plates down. She was about to trail after them when Dwalin pulled her back down onto her bum—with more force than she knew was necessary.

“Better not, lass,” he said. “Thorin doesn’t much enjoy spies.”

“But we deserve to know—”

“And they’ll tell us all about it, _when_ they get back.”

Very much not in the mood to argue, Fheon calmed herself down and retreated to her room, where she was dumbfounded to find her quiver once again filled with arrows. And they were not Elven arrows either. They were exactly like the original ones Hiram fletched; even their balance and weight were the same. She noticed a piece of paper pinned beneath the quiver, and picked it up. Written neatly—and in common-tongue, thankfully—was a note.

_The fletchers in Rivendell have been accustomed to making arrows that will fit the bows of the Dunedain. They have agreed and told me personally that no pay is needed. Know that the Rangers of the North are always welcomed here._

_Yours truly, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell._

Looking down at her quiver, which they had filled with what must have been forty or so arrows, Fheon sighed and muttered to herself, “Save me from the civility of elves.”


	8. The Misty Mountains

Fheon was shaken out of her dreamless slumber. Wearily, she opened her eyes to find Elijah looking down at her. She pushed his hand away from her shoulder and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, mumbling, "What is it?"

"We're leaving," he said, slapping her cheek lightly. "Come on, get up."

"Leaving…?"

His weight disappeared from the top of the bed, leaving her to sit up by herself and pull the sheets off her body. She must have fallen asleep while waiting for him to come back last night… She stood up and started lacing her boots on, the urgency in his statement finally registering to her. Memories of yesterday slowly seeped into her half-asleep mind.

"The rest of my clothes," she started, "The maids took them—"

Her brother cut her off by tossing her a familiar, forest-green coat. She raised an eyebrow. He only shrugged, saying, "Thorin wants us to be gone by sunrise."

"And does he still?" she asked, just noticing that the sky outside was still dark, but dawn was not far.

"Yes."

Nodding, Fheon returned her belt to her waist and strapped her sheathed sword there. She clicked the clasps of her cloak together, slipped her pack, bow, and quiver over her shoulder and then followed Elijah out the door. "Have they at least smuggled some food for the trip?"

"Of course," said Elijah, throwing her a cheeky grin. "You may not know it, but the two of us think alike more than you realize."

They kept their footsteps light as they wordlessly trekked down the many hallways of the building. Bilbo, Thorin and the Company awaited them at the entrance they had first taken into the city. The dwarves were carrying much more bags than they had been yesterday, and Fheon knew that it was mostly food and water inside—though she noticed that one person was missing from their group

"Where is Gandalf?"

"We will stop at the mountains a week from now and wait for him there," said Balin. "He will follow."

"The mountains?"

"The Misty Mountains," Thorin clarified hurriedly. "There is no way over them, so we go through. But we have a deadline: before the summer ends, I want us long past the mountains. So I hope you will be able to meet our expectations, Rangers."

Fheon stared at him blankly, not saying anything. Was he really telling  _her_  to keep up? Their journey took longer than it was supposed to because of the dwarves' constant need for food. If they did not need to stop for lunch, they would have been able to journey much farther than where they were now. But, since Thorin could not read minds, a moment had barely passed before he turned around and started leading them out of Rivendell.

No guards were about, surprisingly, and the very little of them were easy to slip past. Fheon silently followed behind her brother, a fire rekindled in her. She would prove herself to the King Under the Mountain; she would prove herself to be more than just a weak,  _female_  human.

As it turned out, the many bags of food the dwarves had smuggled out of Rivendell mostly consisted of bread. Only Bombur, Bifur and Bofur had meat in their packs, and that was what they ate for the following three days that came; for breakfast and supper.

* * *

 

As soon as she could on the first day, Fheon told Thorin about her concerns regarding the timeliness of their trip—regarding stopping for lunch. He only nodded before calling out to his kin.

And so, for three days, they prioritized the meat they had for major meals, and ate the bread all throughout the day whenever they got too hungry.

It worked out just fine, for Fheon and Elijah were able to save up on arrows. Not much predators roamed the mountains. The bears that lumbered by would ignore them, making way for the streams to fish for food. The mountain lions that would come near, Fheon and Elijah shot down, but none of the Company dared harvest their meat for food. There were not much wolves, but Thorin still made sure to continue the night watches. None of them forgot their encounter with the orcs, and so they kept wary for another attack.

It was the morning of the fourth day; Fheon shook her brother awake then gave him a hard pat on the cheek—payback for how he had done it during that final morning in Rivendell. He stared up at her with drowsy, confused eyes.

"I spotted a river a few miles out from here," she explained quietly, so as to not rouse the others. "We're going fishing."

"Why?" Elijah asked, but pulled his cloak on anyway and readied his weapons.

"I don't know if you've noticed, brother," said Fheon, "but there aren't much deer or rabbits to be found in this particular mountain. We can't take too long with looking for food. We are on a schedule, as His Majesty has stated before."

She glanced sideways to make sure Thorin was soundly asleep, before gently shaking Bilbo's shoulder. The hobbit's eyes snapped open and he looked at Fheon with an alarmed expression. "We're going to hunt for food," she told him. "Do you mind staying up to watch the others until we get back?"

He hurried into a sitting position immediately, mumbling, "Of course, of course, I—I wouldn't mind…"

Smiling softly, she patted his shoulder before turning around. "Come, Elijah," she said.

When they were far enough away and the loud gurgling of the river had reached their ears, Elijah muttered to her, "You know we have  _never_  been taught how to fish, yes?"

She kept her eyes on the river, uncertainly drawing her bow. "There's a first time for everything."

Ultimately, they were not able to catch even a single net's worth of fish, resulting in the dwarves' grumbling stomachs throughout the day and their even louder complaints. Fheon ignored them by thinking about what they had done wrong, what she and her brother could do to have a better catch.

The next morning, however, they were met with the same results, albeit one or two more fish. They had been fishing with a bear across them, that time, but they dared not shoot it in fear of its family looking for it. Yet later that same day, Elijah was lucky enough to shoot three fat hares. Fheon took this as a reward for their patience, even though it was a very small reward.

On the sixth day, while she and Elijah were standing by a different river, bows drawn and waiting for fish to come by, she sensed movement coming from their front. It was no predator. Slowly raising her head, she gazed at the beautiful sight of a herd of deer walking towards them.

As carefully as she could, she alerted her brother of their presence. They were able to shoot three; the other two escaped. They settled for the three.

They were right on schedule, it seemed, for on the late afternoon of the seventh day, Elijah led them to a mountainside's decline. Fheon welcomed the spectacle with relief because, though she would never admit it, the long trek up, down, and along the sides of the mountain range had been exhausting.

As the day wore on, eventually giving in to the night, she nibbled on a slice of bread. She walked ahead of the company, eyes peeled for any danger that could be above or below them. Yet glancing upwards, she spotted several hundred birds flying off in the opposite direction. Even standing where they were, she could already see the dark storm clouds rapidly making their way towards them.

The urgency of the situation only heightened when a particularly strong gust of wind blew past them, propelling her hood off the top of her head. These were indeed dangerous signs, considering the path ahead was narrow and they were walking along a mountain face.

"There's a storm coming," she called over her shoulder.

"Keep going," was Thorin's only reply.

A subtle scowl made its way onto Fheon's face, but she did not question him. Forging on, she started calculating how long it would take before the dark clouds were right above their heads.

* * *

 

The punishing cold came first, with the rain not far behind. Beneath the deluge, it seemed Thorin did not care who was leading anymore. Elijah had been in the front when it started, but somehow he and Fheon found themselves in the middle of the bunch, with Thorin at the head.

Their hands grasped at the mountainside, desperate to keep from slipping off the path. The Rangers had long unequipped their bows, afraid that they would only drop them and lose them forever. The one time Fheon glanced over her shoulder, she found her brother gripping Bilbo's arm. Shortly after that, she heard a ruckus from behind and the sound of rocks crumbling, and looked to find out that the hobbit had nearly fallen off the cliff face, but had been saved by Elijah.

"We must find shelter," she shouted to Thorin, in order to be heard over the thunder.

"LOOK OUT!" someone bellowed from the back.

Fheon quickly raised her head and found a boulder the size of a house hurtling towards the ridge above them. Upon collision, the boulder broke and sent rocks flying down at the Company. They were forced to halt and press themselves against the rough walls of the mountain.

"This is no thunderstorm," said Balin. "It's a thunder-battle! Look!" He pointed to the crags across them. Fheon looked there to find a vaguely-humanoid shaped figure tearing itself away from the mountain-face to take hold of another sarsen.

"Well, bless me—the legends are true!" another dwarf said; Fheon could not be sure who it was anymore. "Giants! Stone-giants!"

Said stone-giant threw another boulder over their heads, which crashed loudly against something behind them. Shielding her head from the debris, Fheon peeked through the crook of her elbow and saw another stone-giant stepping out of the craggy mountainside behind them. That was what the first stone-giant had been aiming for.

"Take cover, you fools!" Thorin bellowed, stretching his arm out to push the dwarves back. Chunks of rock fell from above, pounding on Fheon's arms like horse hooves. The thin strip of ground in front of them gave way, crumbling.

"Hold on!" yelled Dwalin, just as the rock-base beneath their feet split, right between Fheon and Elijah.

Fheon reached out for her brother, panicked because she did not know which of them was in bigger danger. He screamed for her, stretched his arm as far as it would go, but more rocks fell from overhead and came in-between them.

She sensed something moving above and her wide eyes were met with the sight of a third stone-giant emerging from the side of the mountain. She was also alarmed to find that its knees were, in fact, the platform she and one-half dwarves were standing on. Across them was its other knee, which was the platform Elijah and Bilbo and the second half of the dwarves were standing on.

Their stone-giant was knocked backwards by a blow from its kin; its knee bent to the side, nearly crushing Thorin between another platform. But the dwarf jumped across the narrow gap and yelled at the others to do the same. Fheon surged forward when the dwarves had made it, but their stone-giant was already recovering from the previous blow, starting to stand back up.

She lost her footing the very moment she jumped.

For a frightening moment, she was left gliding carelessly through the air. Then Kili grabbed hold of her arm and tugged her onto the platform. She returned her attention to her brother and shouted as loud as she could. "JUMP!"

As far as she was, it was impossible to see any sort of acknowledgement. The dwarves were screaming and barking to each other, to Bilbo. Elijah yelled something incoherent, before grabbing hold of the nearest dwarf—Fili—and then giving him a monstrous throw.

Fili sailed through the air, arms flailing. Fheon grabbed his arm, Kili did the same for the other, and they tugged him onto the platform. By then, Elijah's stone-giant had started moving again. Elijah was able to throw another dwarf across the ravine—Ori—for Fheon and Kili to pull onto safety. But then their stone-giant was knocked backwards again.

The knee that Bilbo, Elijah, and the rest of the dwarves were standing on was pushed against the mountainside.

When the stone-giant pulled away to fall into the valley far below, there were no signs of their Company on its leg.

"Elijah…" Fheon pushed past the dwarves and ran to their impact point, fearful thoughts of her brother being dead already spilling into mind. Her heart clenched, and a sob tore its way out her throat. "Elijah—"

She stopped dead in her tracks when she found her brother, Bilbo, and the rest of the dwarves piled on top of each other on the ground a few feet away. Bruised, but not dead.

Relief flooded through her. Elijah raised his head, eyes squinted, and he actually cracked a smile. "Well," he said, tossing a rock away from his leg, "I am never doing that again."

Fheon rushed towards him and helped him up, wincing slightly as his fingers wrapped around the bruises on her arms. However, he surprised her by pulling her into a hug. In such circumstances, where he had been the one much closer to dying, she should have been the one to do so. But without question, she dragged her hands over her shoulders and returned his gesture.

Their reunifying moment was cut short by two words from Bofur: "Where's Bilbo?" Elijah pulled away immediately as the dwarf repeated himself, "Where's the hobbit?"

Fheon was finally able to discern the grunting of one of their Company, from below them, though it was barely heard past the thunder. "There!" she yelled, pointing to the pair of hands that was peeking out from the cliff face.

"Get him!" Thorin bellowed.

Ori made a reckless leap towards Bilbo's hand, reaching for it as the hobbit's fingers slipped off the surface. He was able to grab hold onto a crevice again, but he was sure to let go soon. Two dwarves were already reaching for him, to no avail, it seemed. Fheon spied the hobbit's fingers slowly peeling away when Thorin jumped from his position beside her and hooked his foot to a cranny on the cliff-face.

He grabbed Bilbo's shoulder and shoved him upwards—but, doing so, lost his leverage.

Fheon saw it coming. Her hands shot out to grab his forearm. She would have fallen into the ravine with him if it weren't for Elijah quickly gripping her feet, keeping her from falling forward. She met Thorin's surprised eyes.

"Dwalin," she was able to say through gritted teeth.

Her arms felt like they were going to fall off from Thorin's weight. Fortunately, Dwalin was nearby, and he hastily took the burden from her. Grunting, he tugged Thorin higher up, and the dwarves were able to help him back onto solid ground. Elijah continued tugging Fheon by her feet—to her annoyance—until they were beside each other, panting heavily.

"I thought we'd lost our burglar," she heard Dwalin say.

Thorin grunted impatiently in response. "He's been lost ever since he left home," he said, breathless. "He should never have come. He has no place amongst us. Dwalin!"

He gestured for the larger dwarf to follow him into a narrow opening within the mountain, leaving the rest of the Company to catch their breath.

Elijah helped Fheon onto her feet, and she, feeling quite displeased with how Thorin had spoken, walked over to Bilbo and helped him up. She patted him on the shoulder, muttering, "For what it's worth, I'm the only woman in this group, so."

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile, but other than that, he said nothing. Pursing her lips, Fheon subtly made way for her brother instead—thinking that perhaps he would be able to help raising Bilbo's confidence more—and then slipped into the cave Thorin had found.

"Right, then," Gloin was saying as he dropped the last of the firewood they had been saving. "Let's get a fire started."

The red-bearded dwarf rubbed his hands together, but Thorin said, "No. No fires, not in this place. Get some sleep. We start at first light."

"We were to wait in the mountains until Gandalf joined us," Balin reminded tentatively. "That was the plan."

"Plans change," said Thorin.

Elijah raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about this, Thorin?"

"He has taken too long already. Durin's day is nearing. We cannot risk it."

"Gandalf would not like it," murmured Fheon, looking the Dwarf King in the eye.

He returned her blank gaze coldly. "If he is not here by morning, we will leave—with or without him. Bofur," he called over his shoulder, "Take the first watch."

"Actually," Elijah cut in, "I'd like to take first watch. If it's no trouble, that is."

Thorin looked at him for a moment before nodding. Then he walked away, to sit by Dwalin and Balin. Fheon stared after him, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from cussing at him, but not being able to keep the contempt from appearing in her eyes.

Who was he to decide whether they should leave Gandalf or not? Gandalf, who had towed them past their troubles time and time again with his wisdom and magic. Gandalf, who had made their woes disappear by simply offering a smoke from his pipe. It was absurd that Thorin, the King Under the Mountain, was going to abandon one of his strongest allies in his quest for Erebor. She at least hoped that he had good reason.

Warily, Fheon glanced about at the cave they were in, narrowing her eyes at the conspicuousness of it all, at the floor that was perhaps too even and smooth. There was a light whistling that irritated her ears; she did not know whether it came from inside the cave or outside.

Eventually, however, she came to a conclusion and said to her brother, "I will stand watch with you."

"Two hours," he said, to which she nodded.

"Two hours."


	9. Goblin-town

Fheon did not know how much time had passed, whether any at all was passing, or if it had only just been a minute. She had been focusing on the whistling noise that _would not stop_. She was positive that it was coming from something—or some _one_ —within the cave, now, for the wind blowing outside had long since stopped. Yet when she looked around at the Company, each one of them was asleep. Save perhaps for Thorin, whose breathing was rather shallow.

Was there a hollow part in the cave? Perhaps. But even considering this possibility, Fheon could not force herself to calm down.

Surprisingly, Elijah was quiet. He did not rock his feet from side to side, or bump Fheon’s knee with his own, or play with her hair. He was simply watching the last excesses of the rain dripping outside, completely attentive—another one of the reasons Fheon could not put herself to ease.

It was quite a while into the night when she was able to loosen her grip on her bow. Just as she was telling herself that nothing was going to happen, something happened.

At the far corner of the cave, Bilbo got up and buckled on his belt, before beginning to pack up the possessions he had. It seemed that he had not noticed the Rangers were still on watch. He picked up his walking stick and started creeping over the sleeping forms of the dwarves. Silent as he was while making his way to the entrance of the cave, he could not escape the notice of Elijah and Fheon.

“And where do you think you’re going, Mr. Baggins?” said Elijah, using that intimidating but kind tone that he had.

Bilbo stopped in his tracks and was still for a moment, looking upwards in exasperation, before facing them and saying, “Back to Rivendell.”

“No offense, Bilbo,” Fheon cut in softly, “but you would not make it past three days on your own out there.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he retorted, somewhat impatiently. “Thorin said I should never have come and he was right. I’m not a Took. I’m a Baggins. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should never have run out my door.”

Elijah shook his head and leaned forward, looking up at the hobbit with a gleam in his eyes. “Ah, but I’ve seen some of the pluck Thorin needs for this quest. I’ve _seen_ it. If you’d just stick around until we get to Erebor, I could teach you how to use your sword and the Took in you will rise!”

“You’re homesick, Bilbo,” Fheon murmured. “I understand—”

“No, you don’t understand!” he retorted, barely being able to keep the conversation hushed. “I heard you talking, that first night near The Shire. I know what happened.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously. “If you’ve told them—”

“I haven’t—I haven’t and I won’t. But y-you’re missing the point. They’re dwarves, you’re Rangers. You’re used to this life—to living on the road, never settling in one place, not belonging anywhere.”

And though Fheon was much more offended by this, her brother managed a chuckle. “That came out wrong, didn’t it?” he said.

“It did. I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” The hobbit trailed off, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Will you let me leave?”

Fheon regarded him for a long moment, frowning. “I won’t tell you that you’re right,” she said, “about these dwarves not belonging anywhere. That’s what this quest is for: to take back their homeland. But I and my brother… You heard right about that. We don’t belong anywhere. Not anymore.” She shared a glance with Elijah, and he smiled sadly.

“Which is why we wish you all the luck in the world,” he added, standing up to place a firm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo nodded, returning Elijah’s small smile.

_Stick them with the pointy end,_ Fheon was about to say, for she actually did not want the hobbit to die out in the wild. But her words caught in her throat the moment she noticed a faint glowing coming from his hip.

She shot to her feet and had pulled his sword out of its sheath in an instant. The blade was indeed glowing blue.

“Wake up!” Elijah yelled. His voice echoed loudly within the cave, and he repeated, “Wake up! Everyone, get up!”

Lines appeared in the sand on the floor, coming as if they were falling through cracks. The dwarves snapped awake from their slumber, but too late. The whistling sound that had become so familiar to Fheon’s ears stopped all together. Then, the ground beneath them opened up like doors.

The dwarves lying by the entrance fell into the chasm first—accompanied by Bilbo and Elijah. As their shouts of alarm reverberated again and again, Fheon was able to catch herself by wrapping her fingers around a rock jutting out of the walls beneath the door. Yet she knew she could not abandon the dwarves.

Cursing loudly, she pulled herself upward the slightest bit in order to grab her bow, before intentionally letting her fingers slip.

She fell into the chasm in a presumably neater fashion than the dwarves had. She soon found that it was a channel of some sort, but vertically built and slippery. As she slid down the shaft, it was nearly impossible to keep her footing, but she did. Torches lined the walls and the entire passageway reeked of rot. The various twists and turns almost left her falling onto her bum. Almost.

When she finally reached the end of the tunnel, she had to waste two of her arrows in order to stop her descent. By the time she had stopped moving, the shafts had all but broken off. She threw them away and carefully crawled to the mouth of the tunnel, looking down to where the dwarves had presumably landed.

It was a long fall, she had to admit, but that was assuredly the least of her problems at the moment. As she looked down from the mouth of the entrance, she saw that the dwarves were being attacked by what looked to be a legion of goblins.

The goblins started leading them away, with the Company offering much of a fight. When they had disappeared from her line of sight, Fheon noticed a form kneeling on the bridged pathway. Upon closer inspection, she was able to discern a familiar hobbit’s red overcoat.

“Bilbo,” she whispered, which was enough, for her voice echoed all the way down to him. Jumping in surprise, he looked around for her and she had to wave her hand to catch his attention. “Wait for me there... I don’t suppose you can catch me?”

“Uh, well, um…” He walked to her landing platform, looked down at it, and then shook his head. “No.”

Nodding, Fheon remembered the “tuck-and-roll” technique Hiram had taught her and her brother years ago. She had never found the need to use it, until now. Taking a deep breath, she made sure she recalled the steps correctly before jumping out of the entrance. She made sure her feet were going to land on the platform. The moment she felt the wood make contact with her feet, she let her knees give way slightly as she tumbled forward.

The world spun for a second before she was back on her feet, heart pounding against her chest from the adrenaline of the fall. She felt that her shoulder had taken most of the impact, and took a moment to catch her breath. She caught Bilbo looking at her with astonished eyes, and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Come, burglar,” she said. “The dwarves can’t save themselves.” He nodded, much to her grim amusement, before they started on their way, following the noise of the goblins.

Quietly, they walked across unstable bridges, keeping to the darkness. Barely minutes into their trek, though, Fheon heard a faint growling coming from above. Something dropped from a crevice above her head.

The arrow she shot missed its target. The goblin landed on her shoulders and wrapped its grubby fingers about her neck, strangling her. She was forced to let go of her bow to attempt to pry its hands off her. It was heavy, too. Eventually, she lost her balance and fell onto her back, but the goblin kept at it.

“Bilbo,” she managed to choke out. “Sword.”

She was not sure what the hobbit did after that, but she was able to discern the faint sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath, and then the gory noise of skin being cut open. The goblin’s hands vanished from her neck. Fheon hurriedly scrambled to her feet and unsheathed her own blade, only to be met with the sight of Bilbo falling over the side of the bridge.

“NO!” She dropped her sword and rushed forward, hoping to do with him the same thing she had done for Thorin on the cliff face, but luck was not on her side this time.

Bilbo fell into what seemed to be an endless abyss, his sword being the only light that accompanied him. Yet the time came when he was lost to Fheon’s senses—be it seeing or hearing—and she was left with a heavy heart.

Noises of goblins echoed down the bridged path she was on, reminding her of their original objective. She held onto the hope that Bilbo was alive, that there was a lake below he should have been smart enough to land feet-first into. With this thought in mind, she sheathed her sword, snatched her bow off the floor, and forged on.

“The Company goes first,” she kept muttering to herself, trying to ignore the fact that she had just lost one of its members.

This time, she ventured forth with even more caution than before. With every five steps, she checked the walls to her sides and above her head, even beneath her feet, keeping in mind that some goblins were cunning when they wanted to be. Yet no attack came, and the noise of goblins was closer than ever.

There was a sharp turn ahead, and carefully, she poked her head out from this. She was met with the sight of a goblin-town, with wooden shacks planted on the walls, connected together by bridges and ladders. The walls were illuminated with dozens of torches and lanterns linked by ropes.

In fact, there was a rope hanging limply not very far from Fheon. She followed it upwards with her eyes and found that it led to a vacant lot of land; with a shack but with no goblins. Using this to her advantage, she slipped her bow over her shoulder and climbed the rope. No goblin could have noticed her from so far away, but just in case, she slipped her hood onto her head.

She pulled herself onto stable ground and rushed to hide inside the shack. If it could hold under the weight of goblins, it could hold her. She pressed herself against the wall by a window and peeked out from there.

Thorin and the Company were still completely surrounded by goblins, not to mention the ones looming above them in their little cabins. Their weapons had been stripped from them. Their bags were all but gone. They had been brought to what Fheon only assumed was the Great Goblin of this particular hive. He sat on a throne—a throne made of junk, but a throne nonetheless.

“Who would be so bold as to come _armed_ into my kingdom?” he boomed, the baggy lump on his throat waggling disgustingly as he stepped down from his throne. “Spies? Thieves? _Assassins_?”

“Dwarves, Your Malevolence,” one goblin replied.

“ _Dwarves_?”

“We found them on the front porch!”

“Well don’t just stand there: SEARCH THEM!”

The Great Goblin paced actively in front of his throne, watching as his minions got to work with the dwarves. “Every crack, every crevice.” Fheon heard something metal hit against wood, before cringing at the unpleasant sound of grinding metal.

“What are you doing in these parts? Speak!”

Yet the dwarves did not speak, and Fheon could not bring herself to be peeved with their decision. Thorin knew that the goblins would kill them no matter what they said. She decided to wait until danger was rearing its ugly head before coming to their rescue.

However, she started second-guessing herself when the Great Goblin said, “Very well. If they will not talk, we’ll make them squawk.” His statement was met with the goblin’s enthusiastic screeches. “Bring up the mangler! Bring up the bonebreaker! Start with the youngest!”

He pointed at a dwarf at the head of the Company; Fheon could not be sure who it was. But just as she was standing in the middle of her opening and drawing her bow, aiming for the Great Goblin’s head, a gruff voice boomed all across the chamber.

“WAIT!”

And the dwarves parted, revealing Thorin’s dark mane of hair to Fheon. She kept her bow drawn.

“Well, well, well,” said the Great Goblin. “Look who it is: Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror—King Under the Mountain!” He bowed low, mockingly, of course, for goblins did not know respect—only fear. “Oh, but I’m forgetting. You don’t _have_ a mountain. And you’re not a king… which makes you nobody, really.” He leaned back slightly, a sort of deranged look coming onto his face. “I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head. Just a head; nothing attached.”

The goblins around the chamber shifted on their feet in what seemed to be excitement.

“Perhaps you know of whom I speak. An old enemy of yours,” their King continued, and Fheon’s heart dropped into her stomach. “A pale orc, astride a white warg.”

What Thorin said next was too low for Fheon to hear, but then he stated defiantly, “He was slain in battle long ago.”

The Great Goblin seemed to whisper something to the dwarf, so Fheon was not able to hear, but the twisted chuckle that left his mouth, she heard just fine.

“Send word to the Pale Orc,” he said to a tiny goblin hanging from a zip wire. “Tell him I have found his prize.”

The tiny goblin travelled downwards and disappeared from view. The Great Goblin returned his attention to the Company and bared the few teeth he had.

“Keep them here,” he ordered his minions. “If anyone but Thorin Oakenshield moves, kill them. We needed dinner anyway.”

The goblins chuckled and then started hopping about, poking and prodding at the dwarves. They started sifting through the pile of weapons they had taken from them, throwing every which one to the side. They had no particular interest in forged weapons.

Fheon spotted her brother’s bow and quiver atop the pile, while a fat goblin was examining his sword. She took note of where the pile of weapons lied as she carefully exited the shack she was in. To her right, there was another cabin with steady floorboards she could hop onto, but the gap was quite wide.

Crouching, she backed up to gain momentum and jumped over the gap. The boards she landed on creaked slightly beneath her weight. It hopefully was disremembered, because she tumbled straight into the shack so anyone who could have heard would not see her. She drew her bow and peeked out the window again, trying to slow her breathing.

The sea of goblins had not disappeared from their places surrounding the dwarves. They were so small compared to Elijah, who towered above everyone else but the Great Goblin. Fheon could not discern the look in his face due to the great distance between them, but he had his hands behind his back, looking so nonchalant.

There came a time when he started whistling. Even when the Great Goblin yelled at him, he would not stop. He seemed so smug about it. But Fheon knew the tune that he was whistling.

It was the song Hiram had sung to them during their first night as official Rangers. They had taken a trip into Bree, to drink and be merry. And Hiram had gotten up on one of the tables and just started singing this happy song about a boy named Kol. Fheon could no longer remember the words, but the melody was like a constant buzzing in her ear—Elijah would keep humming it from days on end if he felt like it.

Now he was whistling it, no doubt trying to send a message to Fheon. She dared not reply, but soon, she was going to make her presence known. Nevertheless, she winced when the Great Goblin rammed the end of his staff into Elijah’s stomach, rather harshly because the man still had not stopped whistling. Elijah stopped then, curling around himself.

“Do shut your gob,” said the Great Goblin. “And let me sing instead. I have a far more fitting song in mind.”

And so he started singing.

_“Clap! Snap the black crack! Grip, grab! Pinch, nab! Clash, crash! Crush, smash! Hammer and tongs! Knocker and gongs!”_

Fheon jumped onto another adjacent shack to her right, which offered her a better view of the scene playing on before her. She nocked an arrow; there was no way out except for through.

_“Pound, pound, far underground! Ho, ho! My lad! Swish, smack! Whip crack! Batter and beat! Yammer and bleat!”_

The goblins had started stomping their feet into the time of the beat the Great Goblin had set. All the while, they kept pushing the members of the Company around. Elijah had his head bowed.

The Great Goblin started singing things that made sense. _“Bones will be shattered. Necks will be wrung. You'll be beaten and battered. From racks, you'll be hung.”_ Fheon had to give it to him: his words were able to send a shiver down her spine. _“You will die down here and never be found, down in the deep of Goblin-town.”_

Fheon took a deep breath, about to let her arrow fly to the head of the Great Goblin, for he had gone on for long enough. Then one of the goblins elicited a deafening screech, dropping something heavy in front of the Great Goblin, who stopped singing abruptly and let out a gasp of his own.

“I know that sword!” he yelled, backing away and pointing at the object the goblin had dropped. Fheon looked more closely to see that it was Thorin’s weapon, Orcrist. “It is the Goblin-cleaver! The Biter! The blade that sliced a thousand necks!” The goblins hissed and ran away, as if the very sight of it burned them. “Slash them! Beat them! Kill them! KILL THEM ALL!”

The goblins surged forward and started piling on top of the dwarves. Fheon could see them pulling at their hairs and scratching at their necks. Then the Company disappeared beneath the sea of filthily-clad goblins.

One dwarf was able to jump out, but was soon overtaken by four goblins. The Great Goblin pointed at this dwarf and shouted, “Cut off his head!”

And as one of the goblins was raising his bone knife, Fheon let her arrow fly towards its skull.

Her aim was true; so were her next three. The four goblins crouching around the once-overtaken dwarf fell off the sides of the bridge. Dead, or soon to be. The chamber lapsed into a shocked silence. The dwarf that was once pinned to the ground scrambled to his feet, and Fheon found that it was Thorin.

She was lucky that goblins were as senseless as they were violent. They had not honed in on her position yet, but Elijah had. Then he quickly thought better and looked away.

“Who’s that?” the Great Goblin demanded, sounding rather fearful. “Coward! Hiding in the darkness and picking us off.” _A clever coward,_ Fheon thought, scowling. “Show yourself, coward!” She took a deep breath, and then jumped out from her hiding place.

Just as swiftly, she released a volley of arrows upon the goblins that were piled on top of the dwarves. Two, four, six—they fell off the Company in a rhythm. And one by one, the Company got to their feet.

Fheon jumped back onto the previous shack and shot from there, downing the many goblins one by one. She dealt with the ones nearest the Company first, and then the ones standing by the pile of weapons. Taking a chance, she made a shot for the Great Goblin’s head, but he deflected it with the thick skin on his arm. This resulted in her position being found.

“There!” he shouted, pointing at where she was still shooting at the goblins below. “GET HIM! KILL HIM!” Because apparently, the hood of her cloak was working wonders with keeping her gender hidden.

“Get your weapons!” Fheon yelled at the Company. “Fight!”

She did not know what they did next, only hoping that she had cleared the path enough for them to get to their weapons in time. The goblins on the shacks across the chamber quickly made their way towards her. She slipped her bow over her shoulder and gripped her sword tightly in her hand, pushing away the ache that had settled on her right shoulder.

When the goblins reached her, they came from either side. She hacked and slashed at them, letting them fall to the abyss below. There were dozens of them, and she was forced to make an escape. She slid past their feet and fell onto the floorboards beneath the given shack, offering the goblins much confusion. She glanced below and found the dwarves hacking their way past the legions of goblins. The Great Goblin was nowhere to be found.

And at some point in time, before, Gandalf had joined in the Company’s ranks.

“Quick!” she heard the wizard say. “Run!”

He and the Company started marching down the linked bridges and through an opening that was sure to lead to the next chamber. Fheon cut open the skull of a goblin that had come too near, and hastily ran after the Company.

She jumped from shack to shack, panicking slightly when the gaps started getting wider. Ahead, there was a large fissure in the stone wall. Fheon cut off a hanging rope, grabbed on, and swung through the crack.

She landed on what felt like an unstable tower, and raised her head to find shacks no longer lining the walls, but pylons and turrets standing at the sides of a main bridge. Running down this path was Gandalf, leading the Company forward.

Barks and growls came from behind Fheon; she looked over her shoulder to find dozens of goblins trying to squeeze through the gap in the wall, but they had gotten themselves stuck. Huffing, she got herself back on her feet and resumed swinging from tower to tower, hacking the goblins that came near.

“Fheon, get down here!!” she heard someone yell from below, and then, “BEHIND YOU!”

Fheon whirled around and was barely able to dodge the club plummeting down straight for her head. So instead, it violently grazed her left shoulder. She cried out in pain, but managed to stab the goblin that had attacked her in the neck.

It fell over the turret’s fences as she pulled her blade out, descending to destroy the turret’s fortifications. Fheon ran forward and wrapped her fingers around a rope, curling around it as her shoulder throbbed. Pricks of white dotted her vision. She tumbled through a gap in the floors of the next tower and landed hard on her back.

Dazed and in pain, she looked through bleary eyes as a goblin got on top of her. Suddenly, an arrowhead sprouted from the side of its head. Fheon pushed the goblin off the side of the tower and slowly got to her feet. She wildly started looking around for a rope. But alas, the ropes that could be used to swing towards the Company had been used by the goblins.

She saw Gandalf leading the dwarves through another underpass. Cussing loudly, she surged forward and latched onto a weak-looking rope, swinging past another fissure in the wall.

When she landed on her side, she was met with the sight of the Company’s path being blocked by the large figure of the Great Goblin. Behind him and behind the dwarves, the goblins had caught up and were relishing the fact their leader had returned.

“You thought you could escape me?” the Great Goblin boomed, before slamming his staff down, narrowly missing Gandalf. Then he swung, which actually made the wizard stumble backwards. “What are you going to do now, wizard?”

Gandalf surged forward and poked the Great Goblin’s eyes with his staff, making the monster rear backwards in surprise. Then, Gandalf swung his sword and sliced the Goblin’s stomach open.

Fheon, coming to the conclusion that they were not in any immediate danger, hurriedly made her way down the bridged path she was on and closer to the Company. When she was right behind the Great Goblin, who had fallen, she made quick work with the goblins rallying behind him, stabbing them and then pushing them off the side.

She was staring over the fallen figure of the Great Goblin and at Gandalf, when the floorboards beneath them creaked and broke.

Fheon met Gandalf’s wide eyes with her own. Quickly sheathing her sword, she jumped over the Great Goblin. The Company had already begun falling. She passed over Gandalf’s head and reached downwards for any of the dwarves’ hands.

Her fingers curled around one of theirs, and she was pulled down with them into the abyss below.


	10. Into The Fire

Falling from a great height was not familiar territory to Fheon.

She cursed loudly at the disturbing feeling in her stomach, wanting to close her eyes in fear, but not being able to because of the wooden debris that flew at her face. Her grip on the hand that had wrapped around hers was deathly tight as she struggled to keep the dwarves in sight. She was afraid that, if she let go, she would start falling slower than the rest of the Company and they would be lost to her; perhaps she would scrape against the rough stone walls to her sides, or be impaled by the debris flying at her.

It was a senseless way of thinking, but her train of thought was travelling just as fast as their descent.

As yet another wooden splinter scratched at her face, Fheon brought her other hand up to grip the nameless dwarf’s forearm. Abruptly, their descent slowed down, resulting in her smashing against said dwarf.

The air was knocked out of her lungs, leaving her breathless and not able to ignore the ache in her shoulder and the newfound pain that had sprung up from her chest. She was able to register a faint tickling sensation on her face, causing her to wrinkle her nose.

“Well, that could have been worse,” came the familiar voice of Bofur.

At the sound of groaning dwarves and creaking planks, Fheon came to a conclusion that things could have, indeed, gone much worse. Slowly, she cracked one eye open and was met with the sight of greyish brown fur hovering very close to her face, making her nose twitch.

With her dazed senses, she almost thought that she was on a warg. But the hard flatness pressing against her chest was too cold to be an animal’s body. Just as she was raising her head to see which unfortunate dwarf she had landed on, an abrupt weight fell on top of her.

The wreckage from their descent downwards dug painfully into her back. Fheon closed her eyes tight, in pain, and dropped her head again onto the warm surface she was on. Beneath them, the rest of the Company groaned in displeasure; they were sure to have gained fewer injuries than she.

The dwarves below her started shifting about, getting themselves back on their feet. Fheon was confused as to exactly how they were doing it considering the crushing weight on top of them.

Despite her discomfort, Fheon was forced to acknowledge the urgency of their situation when the dwarf directly beneath her said, “Get up.”

She could have recognized that gruff voice anywhere. Why would she not, when she had spent the last ten months journeying with him and his kin, having to see him as their leader?

Grudgingly, Fheon raised her head to glare at Thorin, the pain and the hormones getting to her. He returned her gaze with equal heat, but they were forced to look away when, below them, Kili shouted, “Gandalf!”

Fheon did not need to look to know it was the goblin army surging towards them.

“Get up!” Thorin repeated, louder and practically yelling into her ear.

Red-faced with exertion, she hastily dragged herself out from beneath the Great Goblin, off of Thorin, and onto the splintery hard ground below. She blinked away the spots in her vision as she felt someone helping her up. When the spots were gone, she found that it was her brother who had offered his arm as support. His eyebrows were furrowed in concern, face glistening with sweat.

“There’s too many,” said Dwalin, helping up an exhausted Nori. “We can’t fight them.”

“Only one thing will save us. Daylight,” Gandalf replied, hastily helping Oin out of the wreckage. “Come on! Here, on your feet! Move!”

The dwarves, with their steelier wills and stronger backbones, easily regained their footing and were soon trailing after Gandalf. Fheon held onto Elijah as they tailed the Company. Clutching her shoulder, she looked back and found what seemed to be the whole of Goblin-town chasing after them like hounds from hell.

She bit back a groan and started moving her feet faster, doing her best to ignore the throbbing by her left shoulder blade. Gandalf led them into a dark, narrow tunnel that reminded her too much of the troll-hoard they had found mere days ago. Past the twists and turns of the passageway, however, the goblins’ cackles soon grew to be far away.

Another turn and light flooded onto Fheon’s face, warming her instantly. She relished in the feeling before the sound of a separate being’s shallow breathing reached her ears.

Her head snapped to the side, eyes wildly searching a second channel that branched off to their left. Nothing seemed to be there, except perhaps a way back into Goblin-town.

“Come, quickly!” she heard Thorin say. Scowling, she turned away from the second passage and followed the Company out onto a lush, green hill—out into broad daylight.

The slope of the hill was quite steep for Fheon’s liking. Elijah was the only thing keeping her from tripping over the large tree roots, or tripping over her own feet. They did not stop to catch their breath until they were a few miles away from the entrance to Goblin-town, at which time, Gandalf had started counting the members of the Company.

“Five, six, seven, eight,” he muttered to himself. “Bifur, Bofur—that’s ten… Fili, Kili—that’s twelve… And Bombur—that makes thirteen… one, two Rangers—good… Where’s Bilbo?” The wizard looked around. “Where is our hobbit?”

And the crushing reality of what had happened earlier on in the caves crashed over Fheon, filling her with a deep sense of sorrow.

“Curse that Halfling!” said Dwalin. “Now he’s lost?”

“I thought he was with Dori!” said Gloin.

“Don’t blame me!” Dori retorted.

“Well, where did you last see him?” Gandalf inquired with what sounded like true anxiety.

“I think I saw him slip away when they first collared us,” Nori cut in.

Gandalf stepped forward. “And then what happened exactly?”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Thorin abruptly snapped. “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since he first stepped out of his door—”

“Do _not_ speak of him like that,” Fheon hissed, which, of course, drew all attention to her; even from Elijah, who softly murmured at her to calm down. But she would not have it. “When he slipped away, I was able to join him in the caves. _He did not run away._ ”

She glared at Thorin, not being able to control her impatience with him any longer. “Then a goblin attacked me, and Bilbo helped it off. But doing so, he… he fell,” she finished in a hushed tone, remembering her previous musings about him landing in a lake far below. If that had happened, then perhaps he would be able to traverse through the tunnels beneath Goblin-town, and maybe…

She stopped herself there, looking up to meet Thorin’s gaze once more. “I do not know if he is dead, or if he is—”

“Here.”

The familiar soft voice startled Fheon. She whirled around, and then found her spirits lifted considerably higher when she saw Bilbo standing there, greasier and dirtier than she remembered, but unharmed. “I’m here,” he clarified, and Fheon’s face broke into a large smile.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf exclaimed, beaming. “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”

“Bilbo,” said Fheon, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’d given you up. Did you encounter any more goblins on your way out?”

He stuttered, “No—yes, well, sort of—”

“How on earth did you get past them?” Fili inquired.

“How, indeed,” Dwalin muttered. Fheon narrowed her eyes at him and Thorin, whose faces suggested that they were suspicious of the hobbit.

Bilbo did nothing for a moment; he looked quite stroppy. But then he laughed lightly and pointed a playful finger at the dwarves, before pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Well, what does it matter?” Gandalf cut in with a wide smile. “He’s back!”

“It matters,” said Thorin. “I want to know.” He looked at the wizard incredulously, and then switched his gaze to Bilbo. His voice turned soft, but equally as serious and challenging. “Why did you come back?”

Bilbo regarded the King Under the Mountain, an earnest glint in his eye. “Look, I know you doubt me. I know you always have,” he said. “And you’re right: I often think of Bag-End. I miss my books, and my armchair, and my garden. See, that’s where I belong. That’s home. And that’s why I came back; because…” He shrugged. “You don’t have one. A home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back, if I can.”

The Company lapsed into an easy silence, each of them looking at Bilbo with utmost gratefulness in their eyes. Even Thorin, who dipped his head in respect to the hobbit. Elijah stepped up and wrapped his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, pulling the hobbit into one of his brotherly hugs. Gandalf smiled pleasantly and Fheon could have sworn she felt something in the air at that moment.

She decided that it was not pure coincidence when, only a few seconds after, her ears impulsively perked up at the sound of a brusque voice speaking in Black Speech from behind her. A moment after, the barks and howls of wargs reached her ears. She whirled around to see the dark figures of at least half a dozen wargs running down the mountainside, straight for them.

“Out of the frying pan,” said Thorin.

“And into the fire,” Gandalf finished. “Run… RUN!”

The Company took off thundering away from the wargs. Fheon pushed Bilbo after them as she and her brother tailed the dwarves.

Jumping over tree roots and running past shrubs, she felt exhausted. The adrenaline pumping in her could no longer replace the heavy feeling in her limbs. She was horrified to find that, when she took her bow in her left hand, it was nearly impossible to hold it up steadily without the pain in her shoulder being too much to bear. Had she gotten a bone broken? Huffing, she was able to register an alarmed yell from her brother. She dived to the ground.

A warg flew over her head and landed a few feet away from her, kicking dirt onto her face. She got on one knee and drew her bow. Just as she was letting go of the string, agonizing pain shot up her neck from her shoulder.

She watched as her arrow whizzed past the warg’s head, almost hitting one of her allies instead. The warg growled, snapping its jaws as it approached her hungrily. Fheon was nocking another arrow with shaky hands when Elijah appeared from behind the warg and struck it down using his much larger sword.

“Come on!” he yelled, pulling her to her feet.

“I can’t shoot,” she told him as they ran.

“Get your sword out—” He cut himself off by decapitating yet another warg with his sword.

Fheon slipped her bow over her shoulder and unsheathed her blade. She looked down at its thin frame uncertainly, wondering whether it would hold after slashing into multiple wargs. She was forced to focus again when Bilbo was somehow able to drive his sword into a warg’s skull. Then he just stood there against a tree, wide-eyed and staring down at the warg.

Fheon slashed at a passing warg’s feet and let Dwalin finish it off with his axe. She surged forward and, switching the hold of her sword to her left hand, tugged Bilbo’s blade out of the dead warg. It was only a little smaller than hers, but she did know how to wield one better.

Handing the small weapon back to the hobbit, she decided to stick with him throughout the battle. Her bow would not be able to do anything for her with her bad shoulder.

Ori ran past them, jumping out of reach of a warg’s teeth and reaching his axe backward to cut into the creature’s spine. Fheon thrust her blade into the warg’s neck for good measure before trailing after Bilbo.

He followed Gloin to the edge of a cliff, with a thousand feet drop below them. Their luck had run out.

“Up into the trees,” Gandalf yelled. “Come on—climb!”

“Bilbo, climb!” Fheon ordered, whirling around and slicing into a warg’s muzzle before burying her sword to the hilt in its skull. Seeing the hobbit still on the ground, holding his sword nervously, she yelled again, “CLIMB!”

He jumped, startled, but nevertheless sheathed his sword and started climbing up a particularly tall tree. A rock suddenly flew past Fheon’s head and hit a warg in the eye, dazing it. Fheon took advantage and surged forward to slice its neck open.

“They’re coming!” Thorin shouted from behind her.

She slashed at another warg before Elijah began dragging her further up the cliff. He practically shoved her towards a tree. Sheathing her bloody sword, she quickly started scaling the tree, heartbeat pounding in her ears as multiple warg sounds came from below her. She cussed loudly as the throbbing pain in her left shoulder worsened, as she was forced to use both arms to pull herself up the tree.

Sweat cascaded down her neck but she was finally able to rest on one of the thick, high branches. Panting, she looked for Elijah among the many trees littered around her and found him sitting on the one nearest to her right, on a far lower branch than the one she was on.

Beneath them, the wargs were circling their trees like vultures to a rotting corpse. But when they stopped and turned around at the same time, Fheon was forced to raise her eyes further up.

She was met with the sight of a large, muscular, pale orc, mounted on a white warg. He was just as vicious as she remembered him, with the dozens of scars lining his body and the venomous look on his face.

From the tree to her left, she heard an unbelieving whisper escape Thorin’s mouth: “Azog.”

At least now he knew the truth.

As Fheon forced the nightmarish memories down to the deepest parts of her mind, the Pale Orc sniffed the air and regarded the Company with smug, dangerous eyes. He spoke in Black Speech next, and so Fheon could not understand; however it was obvious he was speaking to Thorin. His bloodshot gaze was on this particular dwarf only. And in his garbled speech, Fheon was able to discern the title “Thorin, son of Thrain”.

He pointed his mace at the Dwarf King, growling words that were meant to threaten. And then he spun his weapon about his head, yelling in the Black Speech. He and his warg bared their teeth, before the mass behind him sprung forth.

The wargs immediately made for the trees, clawing at the bark and trying to jump high enough to reach the dwarves perched on the branches. Fheon pulled herself up to stand on the branch, supporting herself on the trunk.

“Elijah!” she yelled, horrified to see a warg only mere feet from reaching him. He swung his sword at the warg’s snout, making it yelp. He proceeded to climb higher up into his tree.

Fheon glanced down to find two wargs clawing at her tree, rocking the trunk to its roots. They jumped higher and higher, biting the branches off beneath her so she would not be able to climb back down. Fheon scrambled higher up her tree, yelling in alarm when her fingers slipped from their handhold. When she reached the highest branch she could, she tried drawing her bow again, but the pain was much worse this time.

“Shoot them!” she called, specifically for Elijah and Kili. They had to at least lessen the amount of wargs if they were to keep the trees from tearing out their roots and completely falling over.

Helpless, she returned her bow over her shoulder, looking down anxiously at the wargs that had begun clawing at the roots of her tree. She called for Elijah again, and an arrowhead sprung from one of the warg’s skulls. Only one.

When she turned her head she saw that Elijah was dealing with his own troubles, with the distance between him and the wargs ever so lesser. They were not able to reach him before the roots finally gave way.

A cracking sound registered to Fheon and she glanced down to find the roots of her own tree appearing from beneath the ground. She hastily hopped from branch to branch until she was adjacent her previous position. As the tree was falling backwards, she counted to three in her head and timed her jump onto a different tree.

Head reeling from the impact of a branch to her sternum, she was able to register the fact that all the other members of the Company were standing on this lone tree, which was looming just over the edge of the cliff.

The branch in front of her bent downward and Elijah appeared from the top, breathing heavily. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and gave it to him urgently. He nodded once before drawing his bow and shooting a warg in the eye. It fell dead instantly. Only moments afterwards, what seemed to be a flaming pinecone flew past their heads and to the ground below.

Fire spread across the grass immediately, forcing the wargs to back up. Another half dozen pinecones were thrown, forming a line of fire in-between the Company and their enemies. Elijah kept firing arrows, downing wargs one at a time. Fheon seldom ever felt so useless.

Azog roared in outrage, which was met by the dwarves’ yells of glee. But as Fheon had concluded minutes ago, their luck had run out.

The branch beneath her turned uneven and soon she was lying with her back on the trunk as the tree fell backwards, its roots digging themselves out of the soil. Clutching the bark, she changed her position so that she was looking down the cliff side.

She found the dwarves hanging perilously on the branches. Ori was dangling by Dori’s legs, and Dori did not have a decent grip on a branch. Their tree uprooted itself further, and then Dori slipped from the branch altogether. In a split second, Gandalf had stretched his arm out, and Dori was able to get a grip on the end of his staff. The dwarves all struggled to keep from falling, including Elijah.

Seeing him dangling on a branch with only one arm wrapped around the wood was unnerving. Fheon searched wildly for a way to get to him without risking their chances of survival, but there was none.

“Can you hold on?” she shouted at him, relieved when he was fine enough to throw her a thumbs-up. His gaze veered from her to something behind her, and she was surprised to find Thorin marching down the trunk of the tree, sword at hand.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, swiping at his feet.

“Finishing what I should have ages ago,” he said, not even turning his head to look at her.

She stared after him in exasperation, watching as he marched right through the path of branches, past the flames, and then took off running towards the Pale Orc. Azog waited smugly until he was close enough, and then his white warg jumped over Thorin’s head, giving his head a ferocious scratch with its claw.

“You have to help him,” someone from behind Fheon yelled. She glanced over her shoulder to find Kili’s upper half splayed across a branch, with his brother beside him; both looking at their uncle in desperation.

“You have to help him,” Kili repeated. “Please.”

Fheon looked to Thorin and found him already back on his feet, only to be knocked back down again by Azog’s mace. And then she looked to Elijah, an urgent and questioning expression on her face. Before he could even say anything, Bilbo had stood up and started racing down the trunk of the tree, past Fheon and hurling through the flames.

Without even glancing at her brother again, she knew what she had to do.

As she was running after Bilbo with her sword in hand, she muttered unhappily to herself, “Dwarves, hobbits, and their bloody reckless bravado.”

An orc had dismounted his warg and was holding his blade to Thorin’s neck. As he was about to swing, a hawk’s cry pierced through the air. Caligula swooped in from above, raking at the orc’s eyes and no doubt blinding him.

Azog roared in anger.

When Cali was finished with the orc, Bilbo actually launched himself onto its back, therefore saving Thorin, but endangering himself. Fheon made quick work with the orc’s warg, ears perking up at the sound of Bilbo pulling his blade out of orc skin.

Three more wargs appeared behind Azog, accompanied by their riders, and she was forced to retreat back to Bilbo’s side, splaying a throbbing arm across him protectively. But he had grown bold; he pushed her arm away and sliced at the air in front of him, daring the orcs to come closer.

Growling, Azog said something to his companions, and the three wargs behind him walked forward. Their eyes were set on Bilbo and Fheon.

“Coward!” Fheon barked at the Pale Orc, scowling. “Scared to face a _girl_?”

Azog bared his teeth and said something in Black Speech—perhaps an acknowledgement that he remembered her from when she was a child—but he did not move from his spot. His underling wargs crawled forward.

Just as they were about to attack, several dwarf cries echoed from their right, before the Company descended on the wargs. Fheon saw her brother among them, and was filled with a renewed sense of vigor.

She leapt into the fray, quickly killing off two wargs and then stabbing at their riders as they fell to the ground. Beside her, Bilbo hacked at a warg’s muzzle, before swiftly ducking beneath its rider’s swipe. However, doing so brought him face to face with the White Warg, which flipped him onto his back.

Fheon thought that Azog would just leave him there, but he approached him with a deadly look in his eyes. Instinctively, Fheon surged closer to the White Warg and stabbed its backside, burying her sword straight to the hilt.

It roared in pain and fury. In a split second, faster than Fheon could act, it had whirled around and rammed its paw into Fheon’s face, throwing her to the ground. She had not yet regained her footing when she felt its maws close around her body.

As its teeth were pricking against her skin, she lamely brought her sword up and swiped her blade across its snout, surprising herself when her attack drew blood.

The White Warg yelped and let her drop to the ground, where she remained, dazed and in pain. The White Warg was just returning to finish off the job, looming over her with drool dripping from its mouth, when a caw echoed in the distance. It was followed by another, which was much closer.

Azog’s eyes widened just as his Warg ducked. A giant eagle flew over its head, taking a warg and its rider into its talons and then flying away.

Suddenly, Fheon was being dragged to her feet and forced to run, but she could not. She stumbled back onto the ground; her eyes drooped closed in exhaustion, and then she was left there. But the next time she was picked up, it was not by any human hand.

Blinking one eye open, she found that an eagle had picked her up. A giant eagle. She felt its talons digging into her hips, but it was not as painful as she thought it would be.

Finally finding a reason to allow herself to rest, she closed her eyes again, and let her body go limp inside the eagle’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the events of An Unexpected Journey, more or less. The next chapter will be more of a transition into The Desolation of Smaug more than anything.


	11. Carrock I

When she awoke again, it was to Elijah slapping her cheek…  _again_.

She blinked open her bleary eyes, not even having the energy to be annoyed with him. Over his shoulder, she was able to make out the small form of Bilbo, looking down at her with worried eyes. She discerned the feeling of stable ground beneath her figure, no longer the constant weightlessness that she felt while the eagle was carrying her in its talons. The sensation felt new to her, which caused her to wonder how long they had been flying.

"We've landed," she was able to croak out, but may have confused her brother when her voice curved in the final syllable, making it sound like a question. But he said nothing, and neither did Bilbo, only stepping back to give her space. She regarded their expressions warily, and asked, "What is it?"

"I was getting worried," Elijah answered quietly, and just when she was about to ask why he was looking so glum, a smile broke across his face. "You've been out for the whole day, didn't you know?"

"Only because we've been flying for a whole day," she murmured in reply. She held a hand out to him, and he helped her up into a sitting position. She winced at the sudden pain that erupted from her chest; not in just one spot, but in multiple. It must have been from the White Warg's teeth digging into her skin. And then she remembered who else had been inflicted with such an injury.

"Thorin?" she said, voice laced with concern.

Bilbo raised his head and looked at something over her shoulder. Elijah's features smoothened into a serious expression once more, before he mimicked the gesture. Frowning, Fheon supported herself on the heel of her right hand as she turned around, almost just looking over her shoulder.

There Thorin lay, on the ground of the stony eyot they had landed on, with his eyes closed and his sword at his side. Gandalf knelt beside him. His hand hovered over the dwarf's face as he murmured words too low for Fheon to hear. Or she simply did not have the strength to focus enough to actually hone her hearing.

It was a minute in, with her and the rest of the Company just staring at Gandalf's hand as he continued muttering what Fheon assumed was a spell. The severity of the situation had only just started weighing down on her, that there was a possibility their leader would not rise from his slumber, when Thorin's eyes fluttered open.

A sigh escaped Gandalf's lips, and he rocked back on his heels, looking down at the dwarf with relief. Fheon looked away from them, wanting to lie back down and sleep again. And she was just about to, holding her arm out to Elijah so he could help her onto her back, but he misread her intentions and instead helped her onto her feet.

She groaned as the familiar ache returned to her limbs. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bilbo flit away closer to Thorin, no doubt sharing in the great reprieve of the dwarves. Elijah gripped Fheon's hand, with an arm around her waist as the dwarves helped Thorin onto his feet.

The satisfaction that had started to creep through Fheon was quickly distinguished when the Dwarf King all but shoved his nephews off him, looking at Bilbo with fiery eyes.

"You!" he said. "What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us?"

Bilbo could not meet his eyes; his hands, which were balled into fists at his sides, trembled. Fheon shook her head at Thorin in disapproval, too tired to say anything. But then—"I have never been so wrong in all my life."

The corners of her lips already pulling up in a smile, Fheon raised her head slowly and saw Bilbo captured in Thorin's embrace. The hobbit was stiff for a moment, before he gained the courage to wrap his arms around the dwarf. Thorin's smile widened. Behind them, the dwarves cheered in approval.

Once the two pulled away, Thorin had the first word. "But I'm sorry I doubted you."

"No, I would have doubted me too," said Bilbo, shaking his head. Elijah chuckled lightly. "I'm not a hero, or a warrior… not even a burglar." At this, Bilbo shared a look with Gandalf, who smiled.

When it seemed as though the earnest exchange was over, Fheon peeled her brother's arm off her waist, grimacing when pain lanced up her neck just because she had lowered her left shoulder. A hiss escaped through her teeth, and Thorin's gaze switched to her.

"You were there," he said, "with Bilbo. You helped him."

"Yes," said Fheon.

"Thank you, Fheon." And that was one of the few times he ever used her name. "Not just for protecting our burglar from Azog, but for protecting my kin as well—for months, now. I know it is no easy task, and for that, you have my deepest gratitude."

Elijah grinned, saying, "It  _is_  what we got hired for. But please, no hugs needed."

Thorin actually cracked a smile at this, but then his attention was caught by something overhead. Bilbo turned, and so did Fheon and Elijah. They were welcomed with the sight of The Lonely Mountain, so close yet seeming so far. With the background of dawn, it almost looked beautiful—except Fheon knew what was waiting inside, and how difficult the journey to it would be.

"Is that what I think it is?" said Bilbo, to which Gandalf nodded.

"Erebor, the Lonely Mountain," he said, "the last of the great dwarf kingdoms of Middle-earth."

"Our home," Thorin concluded breathlessly.

Elijah called Cali over to him, and then stroked the bird's wing with his finger. "Wonderful work on saving His Majesty, Cali," he said. "Keep it up."

A bird chirped to their right, followed by a familiar caw. "A raven!" said Oin, pertaining to the black bird that had flown by. "The birds are returning to the mountain."

"That, my dear Oin, is a thrush," Gandalf corrected gently.

"But we'll take it as a sign," said Thorin. "A good omen."

"You're right," Bilbo agreed giddily. "I do think the worst is behind us."

As Cali was flying away again, Fheon sighed and regarded the hobbit with a raised eyebrow. "Don't speak too soon, master Baggins," she said wearily. "You may have forgotten, but there  _is_  a dragon in there somewhere, drawing breath."

Bilbo's optimistic eyes turned fearful, and she threw him a half-smirk before turning around. Her brother looked at her with eyes as wide as his smile, and she muttered to him, "One. Time."

* * *

 

It was unfortunate, but their long-deserved rest at the top of the stony eyot was not very fitful.

Thorin had hoped that the giant eagles would watch over the Company, if only for a few hours, but they did not stay. The eagles had flown away as soon as they dropped off the dwarves. It was in Thorin's wishes to keep moving, but he could see the state that his Company was in, and so he was forced to make them lay down camp at the top of the eyot.

Gandalf reassured him that Azog would not give chase so recklessly, after losing more than half of his legion. The wizard's words offered Fheon no comfort.

She had been the only one who was left with her bag, because she was the only one who hadn't been looted by the goblins. Looking back, she could not fathom how she had remained standing for so long with such weight on her back. Seeing the dwarves lying on their backs with nothing else between them and the cold stone of the eyot's top, she could not bring herself to use her bedroll.

As she was rolling up her cloak, Elijah clicked his tongue at her disapprovingly before unfolding her bedroll again. "No, no, no," he said. "You're not sleeping on the cold, hard ground tonight like the rest of us men."

"I thought we made a deal you wouldn't be treating me as the  _girl_  of the Company," Fheon said in a hushed tone, for she knew that some of the dwarves had already dozed off. She glared at her brother half-heartedly, grabbing her bedroll from him. And she was only brought further to impatience when he snatched it back.

"I'm not treating you like the  _girl_ ," he corrected sternly, quickly unrolling her bedroll before she could stop him again. "I'm treating you like the person who just saved fifteen people from a horrible fate handed down by Azog… not counting Gandalf, of course."

She scoffed. " _Saved_."

"Yes,  _saved_."

Elijah took her cloak from her hands and laid it down at the top bit of the bedroll. Looking down at it, Fheon felt so eager to sleep again, despite her long rest aboard the giant eagle. Yet as she positioned herself to lie down on the soft material of the bedroll, she was reminded of the sting in her left shoulder.

Hissing, she unbuckled the clasps of her belt, untied the strings of her over-shirt and carefully slipped it off. Elijah watched her with concerned eyes as she slowly pulled the sleeve of her tunic up to the top of her shoulder, biting the inside of her lip when her finger grazed the swollen injury.

"How does it look?" Fheon asked, closing her eyes when the cold morning wind blew against the wound.

Her brother stood up, sighing quietly. "Well, there's no blood."

"That's good."

"But it's bruised and about as swollen as an apple."

"Hurts like hell." Fheon groaned and raised her head when Elijah sat back down beside her, with what looked to be a bunch of flower heads in his hand. "What's that?"

"Chamomile," he said, "for the pain."

He rubbed the heads together between his hands, crushing them into a fine powder, and then spat on them. Fheon wrinkled her nose but let him be. The powder turned into a gel of some sort after he rubbed it together again, and then he started rubbing the balm onto her shoulder.

For a while, there was nothing but an irritating itch, gifted by the leaf particles—but then a cool sensation spread forth from where Elijah was rubbing, and it was enough to at least slightly mask the pain. Fheon sighed in relief.

"Chiles would be better," she commented softly, eyes fluttering open.

Elijah smiled. "What else hurts?"

"Unless you expect me to get undressed in front of you, no." She found him pulling more of the chamomile flower heads from his pocket, and stopped him. "You should attend to the rest of the Company, Elijah. They have gained their fair share of injuries as well."

"Not as much as you—"

"The Company goes first, remember? But seeing as the rest of them are sleeping, however…" She narrowed her eyes at Elijah pointedly. "Go see to Thorin. He is sure to be with Balin at this time, if not Gandalf." Elijah stared at her as if she was mad, and she raised an eyebrow. "Surely you saw the blows Azog inflicted on him. He had it worse than me. If it'll make you feel better, hand me an extra bunch and grab another handful for Thorin. I'll attend my wounds on my own."

He slipped the remaining flower heads into her palm and then, slowly but surely, stood up and walked to the bush at the edge of the eyot-top. When he was finished fishing for more of the herbal heads, he walked by Fheon again, grumbling, "Who's the older one here again? Oh yes,  _me_."

Chuckling, Fheon moved around on her bedroll slightly, trying to assess what other injuries she had gained. Apart from the usual muscle pains in her limbs, there was nothing else that proved to be an immediate priority apart from her left shoulder.

Eager to sleep, she gingerly pulled her right sleeve up and started crumbling the handful of chamomile heads between her hands; she spat on them, and rubbed the salve on the upper part of her right arm. But doing so, she had to bring her right arm closer so she did not have to stretch her shoulder too far. From the corner of her eye, she saw Elijah walking back towards her.

"I think they're starting to like us," he said as he laid himself down on the ground, ready to sleep.

"It's only been ten-and-a-half months," Fheon remarked amusedly.

She kept both her sleeves up to her neck to prolong the cooling sensation of the chamomile balm, and laid her head down on the warm softness of her cloak. A soft sigh escaped her lips and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Good night, sister," said Elijah, but Fheon did not reply, for she was already asleep.


	12. Carrock II - Beorn's Hall

> _Howling ghosts they reappear  
>  In mountains that are stacked with fear  
> But you're a king and I'm a lionheart_

FHEON STOOD at the bottom of the eyot they had climbed down from just minutes ago, alongside her brother, Thorin, and Gandalf. They waited for Bilbo to return from his scouting mission; by concept,

Fheon had been irked that he was the one who had gone on instead of her. She and her brother were supposed to be the scouts, not Bilbo, who was the burglar. But Elijah was far too tall to be able to succeed in a scouting mission. And it was in the best interest of the entire Company that Fheon stay behind with them; her injury and fatigues had not been overlooked by Thorin, or Gandalf.

She leaned against the stony exterior of the eyot, eyes closed as she did her best to use her hearing to discern the distance of the wargs—which was, in that instance, not very far.

“They’re close,” she muttered, opening her eyes to the sight of Elijah shifting on his feet in unease. Then they heard the faint rustling of bushes from the valley they were hidden in, and turned to find Bilbo scampering down the gorge.

“How close is the pack?” Thorin demanded immediately.

“Too close,” said Bilbo, only proving Fheon’s point further. “A couple of leagues, no more. But that’s not the worst of it.

“Have the wargs picked up our scent?” said Dwalin.

“Not yet, but they will. We have another problem.”

“Did they see you?” Gandalf rumbled, eyes widening. “They saw you.”

Bilbo shook his head, breathless. “No, that’s not it.”

And then the sides of Gandalf’s eyes wrinkled as he smiled. “What did I tell you?” he said. “Quiet as a mouse. Excellent burglar material!”

“Will you listen? Will you just _listen_?” Bilbo raised his voice slightly. Elijah softly shushed the murmurings of the dwarves and then hastily nodded for the hobbit to continue. “There is… _something else_ out there.”

Apprehension settled over the Company as they stared off to the place Bilbo had pointed to, but Gandalf merely regarded Bilbo with a grim expression. “What form did it take?” he said. “Like a bear?”

“Ye—” Bilbo stared at the wizard with furrowed eyebrows. “Y-yes, but bigger, much bigger.”

“You knew about this beast?” Bofur cut in, just as Gandalf was turning around. “I say we double-back.”

“And be run down by a pack of orcs?” Thorin dismissed the idea immediately. “We would not survive another attack,” he said, looking too pointedly at Fheon. She agreed with his statement with a single nod of her head, but said nothing.

“There is a house,” Gandalf said abruptly. “It’s not far from here, where we _might_ take refuge.”

“Whose house?” Thorin inquired. “Are they friend or foe?”

“Neither. He will help us, or… he will kill us.”

“What choice do we have?”

And just as Thorin said this, a roar of some large beast echoed down from the mountains, seemingly from the same place where Fheon had heard the warg howls.

Gandalf shoddily answered Thorin’s question—“None.”—and then they were running down the valley again, dodging from boulder to boulder when there was an open space, and then sticking to the crevices, where they crouched as they walked.

Ever since the first moments of their crossing the borders of Bree, Fheon knew that the shadows were going to be their refuge, and it had never been a pain to stay in the darkness. But that was because she did not have her shoulder injury then. She had to clutch the end of her shoulder blade as they ran, just so her collarbone would not move so much.

Up gentle slopes and across straight fields, it did not offer her much discomfort. But in their hurry, having to jump over fences and roots, wade hurriedly through shallow rivers—it was the epitome of agony for Fheon. The urgency of their situation was the only thing keeping her from collapsing, but she was close.

As they were running through a thinly-veiled forest, the familiar thundering roar of the beast that Bilbo had spotted echoed down the hillside.

“This way! Quickly!” Gandalf shouted.

The Company thundered past the forest. Once they had broken through the tree-line, Fheon caught sight of a quaint house only a few more feet away. It was surrounded by an evergreen hedge, with oak trees towering over it.

Fheon panted with each step she took. When she turned her head, she found Bombur running faster than she was—faster than any of them, really—most likely because he had seen the beast.

Coincidentally, there was an open entrance through the hedge. Gandalf coaxed them into it and the dwarves immediately ran for the door. Bombur, seeming to think it was unlocked, sprinted straight into it and was knocked onto his back. The dwarves kicked and banged at the door, but it would not budge.

Fheon saw the latch at the top and yelled at her brother, “Elijah, the bolt!”

His incoherent shout from behind her was his only reply. She turned her head and found him aiming at a large, black monster—the beast Bilbo had spoken of. And yet Gandalf yelled at him not to shoot, and he did not, but instead pushed past the dwarves and reached up to unlock the bolt.

The dwarves spilled through the door, Fheon running the extra mile in order to reach them in time. Thorin, Dwalin, Fili and Kili pushed at the doors immediately to close them. Just then, a dark snout appeared from behind the doors, keeping them from closing. Just the snout was larger than Bombur’s entire self.

The beast roared. Bilbo unsheathed his sword with shaky hands. All the dwarves were pushing now, but it was Elijah ramming his shoulder straight into the wood that did the trick. The two wooden flaps met and the dwarves dropped the bar back into place, locking it.

They shared a groan of relief. Ori turned around and asked, “What _is_ that?”

“ _That_ is our host,” said Gandalf.

Fheon wrinkled her nose and swatted a large bee away from her nose, still panting. “Say that again?” she said.

The smile on the wizard’s face was impish. “His name is Beorn, and he is a skin-changer,” he said. “Sometimes, he’s a huge, black bear. Sometimes, he’s a great, strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with. However, he is not overly fond of dwarves.”

As Fheon settled herself down on a hay bale, shedding her cloak, Ori looked through a crack in the door with wide eyes. “He’s leaving,” he said.

Dori pulled him away and sternly told him, “Come away from there. It’s not natural—none of it. It’s obvious. He’s under some dark spell.”

“Don’t be a fool. He’s under no enchantment but his own,” said Gandalf. “Alright, now, get some sleep. All of you. You’ll be safe here tonight.” He muttered something to himself afterwards, but it was too low for Fheon to hear.

She got to removing her cloak, and then unclasping her belt, with one hand. It was arduous work, and even though she was not even using her injured arm, it still throbbed painfully.

Her brother was with Dori, Bombur, Bifur and Ori as they tried to salvage any kind of leftover food from their packs. There were a few non-spoilable vegetables they had smuggled out of Rivendell, and three or four slices of bread. Ori had unknowingly placed a rooster leg in his pack, and they had to throw it away because its stench was rolling around the house. Thorin knew that Beorn would not approve of it when he returned.

Ultimately, the Company ended up munching on loaves of bread to at least tame their noisy stomachs. No one dared to invade the house’s pantry in fear of Beorn’s anger, for Gandalf had already stated that the man was not very fond of dwarves—but one time, Thorin had to keep Dwalin from breaking down the doors to the pantry himself.

Eventually the light outside faded into the night and they were left with moonlight to leave the house illuminated.

As the rest of the Company began to settle down, exhausted from a whole day of running, Elijah remained sitting by a chess board on the table, playing with the mice that were scuttling about the chess pieces. Fheon watched him from her place on the wooden bench by the door, eyes narrowed into slits so she was practically staring through her fatigue.

“Instead of occupying yourself with the rodents,” she drowsily murmured, “how about you finally teach Bilbo how to use a sword?”

He straightened up at that, and because the house was quiet by then, everyone had heard, including said hobbit. Bilbo’s head snapped to Elijah, wide-eyed. He waved his hand negatively, saying, “No, no, I’ve quite gotten the hang of it, actually—”

“No, you haven’t,” Elijah interrupted, strolling giddily towards him. “You swing your sword around hoping to hurt something, and perhaps even block an attack or two. Trust me, it’s easier once you actually know what you’re doing.”

Bilbo shook his head. “You should really get some sleep. We’ve had an exhausting day, and—”

“If you’re not tired then I’m not tired,” said Elijah, grinning slyly. “Come on, it won’t even take an hour. I’ll let you sleep immediately afterwards.”

The hobbit followed with strings of stutters and denials, but Fheon knew that her brother would win in the end, even though she was not particularly listening in anymore. Her eyelids had dropped like sandbags falling from the roof of a sixty-foot height.

Just as she was starting to fall asleep, she felt something poking her shoulder. She cracked one eye open to find Thorin staring down at her with a steely gaze.

She frowned unhappily, mumbling, “What?”

“You are yet to tell us the story of you and your brother,” he growled in reply. “Do not think I have forgotten, nor will I.”

“Thorin, I’m tired,” she said. “Can’t this wait another time?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine. Yes.”

“My patience runs thin with this topic, Fheon. Swear it.”

He narrowed his eyes, and she sighed. “I don’t know why this means so much to you,” she grumbled. “But yes, I swear. Tomorrow night, after we’ve left from here.”

The King Under the Mountain was quiet for a long moment, just watching, looking like he was… reluctant. Fheon stared at him through narrowed eyes, vision blurred because of her fatigue.

“This quest has gone on for almost a year now,” he suddenly blurted out. “You and your brother have helped us, protected us, when we were most in need. You have my thanks.”

_I thought we’d had this conversation already,_ Fheon mused to herself, recalling his words to her on the eyot just yesterday morning. “I suppose in return for your thanks, you want our explanation?” she asked softly, to which he bobbed his head. “Agreed.”

“Tomorrow night,” he said.

She nodded, already closing her eyes again as the sound of Bilbo and Elijah bickering slowly lulled her back into her sleepy state. “Tomorrow night.”

* * *

 

When Fheon opened her eyes, it was to the sight of Bilbo shaking her—not her brother. “Good morning,” said the hobbit, before gesturing over his shoulder. “Elijah told me to come get you. Breakfast is ready.”

“Breakfast…?” Her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as her thoughts started cooperating once more. “Beorn… Beorn has returned, then?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” she said. “You go on ahead. Tell them I’ll catch up.”

Bilbo nodded vigorously before scurrying away, through the doorway that literally went straight into the kitchen. Through the large gap, Fheon could see the dwarves sitting around a table, stuffing themselves with food. She saw her brother sitting by Fili and Kili, chattering and laughing.

There had not been a morning like this since a long time ago, Fheon knew, and so she silently relished the sight as she pulled herself onto her feet.

When she leant down to pick her belt off the floor, she groaned softly as the pain in her shoulder returned. It was yet to get better; neither bruising nor the swelling had faded. But perhaps that was because not even a month had passed. Biting the inside of her cheek, she clasped her belt around her waist and then walked into the kitchen.

Beorn was a tall, muscular man—towering even over Gandalf. He had a large body covered in dirt, but his face looked more animal than man. Fheon supposed that it was caused only by his lineage, and that it was average for them. She decided not to judge, but she could not help but to notice the fetters on his wrists.

Pondering deeply, she sat herself onto one of the empty chairs between Bilbo and Bifur. The gigantic bowl and mug in front of her, as well as the other dwarves, were sure to satisfy her in only one serving.

“Help yourself,” said Beorn in a voice that sounded like rumbling thunder, yet he seemed kind enough. Just as Gandalf had said, the man could be reasoned with.

She nodded at him politely before pouring the contents of her mug into the bowl filled with some sort of muesli. When she took a bite, she found that the milk in the mug was goat’s milk, and that it went quite well with the kind of muesli Beorn harvested. Dropping her spoon and reaching forward, she took a leg part of the large turkey on the table, enjoying the hearty meal as Beorn spoke.

“So you are the one they call Oakenshield… Tell me: why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?”

Thorin’s gaze seemed far away, even when he looked to the skin-changer. “You know of Azog?” he inquired. “How?”

“My people were the first to live in the mountains, before the orcs came down from the North. The Defiler killed most of my family, but some he enslaved.” The fetters on his wrists made sense, then. “Not for work, you understand, but for sport. Caging skin-changers and torturing them seemed to amuse him.”

He did not even sound very angry or bitter. His tone was blank, collected, just like how Fheon made herself out to be most of the time. But there was an underlying sadness in his voice that she could understand.

Meanwhile, Elijah straightened up in his seat. “There are others like you?” he asked.

“Once, there were many.”

“And now?” Bilbo added curiously.

“Now, there is only one.”

A stunned silence fell over the Company as the words sunk in. Even then, Beorn’s expression was only casual. “You need to reach the mountain before the last days of autumn,” he said, looking at Gandalf now.

“Before Durin’s Day falls, yes,” said the wizard.

“You are running out of time.”

“Which is why we must go through Mirkwood.”

Fheon regarded Gandalf, frowning deeply at his words. If they were to go through Mirkwood, she and Elijah would prove to be of no help as scouts there. From the stories she had heard, it was going to be impossible for them to even focus on getting one foot in front of the other once they had inhaled the air there.

“A darkness lies upon that forest,” said Beorn. “Fell things creep beneath those trees. There is an alliance between the Orcs of Moria and the Necromancer in Dol Guldur. I would not venture there except in great need.”

As far as Fheon knew, necromancers were not to be trifled with. Nibbling on a piece of cheddar cheese, she noticed Thorin step off from his seat.

“We will take the Elven road,” Gandalf reassured. “That path is still safe.”

“ _Safe_?” A hint of impatience crept into the skin-changer’s words, now. “The Wood Elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They’re less wise and more dangerous. But it matters not.”

At this, Thorin turned around. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“These lands are crawling with orcs,” Beorn explained. “Their numbers are growing, and you are on foot with an injured scout.” Though she did not enjoy his mentioning of her shoulder, Fheon kept her peace. “You will never reach the forest alive.” Beorn stood up, then, and suddenly she felt very intimidated by his presence. “I don’t like dwarves. They’re greedy and blind. Blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own.”

He picked up a white mouse Nori had pushed off his sleeve, regarding it with strangely compassionate eyes.

With the creature still in hand, he walked to Thorin until he was in front of him. Thorin looked up at Beorn with a steady gaze, no doubt hiding his anxiety beneath a calm demeanor. And he was right to, for after a while, Beorn said, “But orcs I hate more,” looking up from the mouse to meet the Dwarf King’s eyes. “What do you need?”

“Ponies,” Thorin said immediately. “Food, supplies—”

“Anesthetics,” Elijah suddenly interjected, looking from the skin-changer to Fheon. “For my sister’s injury.”

“The ponies, I can offer,” said Beorn, regarding Elijah with an unreadable expression. “As I can with supplies for your venture. However, I do not have painkillers… but I may have herbs that could help.” He looked to Fheon. “You, come with me. The rest, stay here while I get the things you will need.”

He stood up and walked out of the kitchen immediately. Fheon trailed after him, throwing her brother an exasperated look when she passed by him. He merely shrugged with an impish look on his face.

When they were out of earshot, Beorn said, “What is your injury?”

“My shoulder,” Fheon replied quietly, and then seeing the expectant look on his face, undid the top laces of her over-shirt and then pulled the collar down, along with her tunic, revealing the reddish-purple lump just by her collarbone.

He turned around and started walking again. “How did you gain such an injury?” he asked.

“An orc struck me with a mace.”

She followed him out the back of the house, where the plot was filled with herbs and flowers. There were a few rodent traps here and there, but none that Fheon could notice at first glance. Her attention was caught by the familiar chamomile flower at one corner. Yet Beorn did not go there, but to a large bush dotted with purple and pink flowers.

“This is called _Echinacea_ ,” he said, but then, seeing Fheon’s perturbed expression, added, “You may call it the coneflower. It will help with your resistance and strength.” He grabbed a small brown pouch from the windowsill and pulled off a handful of the flower’s stems, placing the bunch into the pouch along with the leaves and petals.

“This will last for a week,” he said, handing her the pouch. “You can eat the leaves and petals raw or mix it into water. Either way, it will make you stronger.”

Fheon accepted the pouch gratefully, about to thank him when he turned and made for another bush; however, this one did not have flowers growing out of it. They were merely spring-green leaves.

“These are lemon balm,” said Beorn, tugging three handfuls of the leaves into his palm and then placing them into a separate pouch. “It will help relieve the pain. Rub it into a powder, spit, and then apply them onto anything that hurts.”

“Like chamomile,” she mused aloud, and a smile might have graced his face for a second.

“Yes.” He walked towards two thinner bushes, plucked a handful of its stems and then placed them into a third pouch, saying, “Parsley and rosemary.”

Fheon took the pouch from him and looked down at the herbs uncertainly. “What are these for?”

“Bad breath,” said the skin-changer. “Make sure to hand some to the dwarves. They reek of rabbit stew.” Slowly, a smile spread onto her face and she immediately popped one of the stems into her mouth before pocketing the three pouches. “And you will need a brace for that shoulder,” he added.

“I don’t suppose you have one?”

Just by the doorway, he stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “I do,” he said, before grabbing something from off the counter and then turned to hand it to her. “This will keep your shoulder from moving around too much.”

Fheon looked at the contraption peculiarly, not knowing what it was supposed to do. Though it was obvious that it was meant to be slipped onto her arm for support, she did not know where the other parts went. So Beorn took it back and started pointing at the portions, speaking like she was a child. She tried not to mind.

“You slip this onto your arm, all the way up to the shoulder.” He pointed to a hollow bit of thick, stretchable but firm material. “This goes tightly over your neck, down across your chest, around your waist—twice, and then back up again. You lock it in place with this.” He took the garter that was connected to one end of the brace, practically shoved it in front of her face, before locking it in place with one of the clasps on the brace.

“Where did you find this?” Fheon inquired, following him deeper into the house.

“I made it.” He returned the contraption onto her hands, saying, “You will need help to put it on. Go ask that brother of yours. The dwarves shouldn’t be too happy that I’ve kept them waiting.”

Frowning, she watched as he walked away from her and then poked her head into the doorway of the kitchen. All eyes went to her, and she impatiently nodded for Elijah to come over.

“What is it?” he said.

“I need your help with something,” she replied quietly.

As soon as she heard the legs of his chair drag across the floor, she turned around and walked to a room. When Elijah followed her in, she closed the door and stood by it, for it had no lock. She just hoped Beorn would not mind if they used the area for a while.

Unclasping her belt and removing her over-shirt, she sensed her brother staring at her in confusion and looked up, explaining, “Beorn gave me a brace for my shoulder. I need your help to put it on.”

When she slipped her tunic over her head, Elijah’s eyes widened and he looked away immediately. Fheon rolled her eyes and said, “Oh please, I’m not nude _yet_.” Slowly, he turned around again and took in the sight of her torso being covered in only a chest wrapping—with reluctant eyes, of course. She regarded him wearily. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

After applying the lemon balm, she relayed the skin-changers instructions to Elijah, and to the best of their extent, they were able to put on the shoulder brace successfully. It was meant to be tight, Fheon reminded herself, and she knew that she would get used to the feeling eventually.

Feeling slightly excited about the ordeal, she moved her arm around. The brace kept her shoulder from moving with her arm, and so she was still not offered full control, but now she could move her left arm with slightly reduced pain. She took note to be careful, and to make it a habit not to move her shoulder around so much, but was satisfied with the brace.

“Better?” said Elijah, and Fheon nodded.

She slipped her tunic back on, thankful that it was slightly loose even though her over-shirt was not as forgiving. She clasped her belt into place and then exited the room with her brother.

When they returned to the kitchen, the entire Company was out of their seats. Half the dwarves had gained new packs—no doubt from Beorn—which looked to be full. The table had been cleared of food; Fheon was not sure whether the dwarves packed the leftovers or ate them.

To her right, she noticed Beorn walking out to the front of the house, with the reins of two almost-identical ponies in hand. Bilbo and the dwarves followed him, taking the reins of random ponies and walking them out.

Thorin was the last to leave. He met Fheon’s and Elijah’s gazes and then said, “Take horses for yourselves. There will be no need for scouting today.”

Elijah nodded, and Fheon breathed a sigh of relief. She would not be running. Although, she was uncertain whether horse-riding would be any different for her shoulder, knowing the jarring effects of a horse’s trotting. As she and her brother walked out of the house with horse reins in hand, she sincerely hoped that Beorn’s brace would make a difference.


	13. To Mirkwood

Fheon’s concerns about the journey being painful for her turned out to be completely childish... but it did not mean that the ride was comfortable.

For a whole day, they travelled across vast lands and hills, only rarely stopping for their ponies to drink at the streams they passed by, and halting for only minutes when their mounts grew too tired to keep running.

The Company did not stop for lunch; Bombur distributed large portions of the turkey from Beorn’s house so they ate on the road. Fheon found that she did not have to constantly clutch her shoulder to keep it from moving, for the brace did that for her; however, they occasionally had to cross rivers and streams, and this offered her great discomfort. The violent movements of her horse often jarred her enough that she had to bite the hem of her cloak until the worst was over.

The day’s journey was quiet and grim. They had all heard Beorn state that the orc pack hunting them would not be far behind, if they were on wargs. They had to reach Mirkwood before the orcs caught up with them. Even Elijah, who had been so buoyant that morning, could not muster up the sincerity to lighten the mood. Fheon thought it best that he did not, anyway.

Overhead, they would sometimes see Caligula flying ahead of them, but she never slowed for long. It was a good thing, too; Azog surely remembered the hawk that had blinded one of his subordinates before Bilbo had killed it.

Eventually, as the day wore on, the sun disappeared from view and darkness descended upon them. Fili spotted a rock formation not far from where they were, and this was where they set up camp. The tall rocks would shield them from prying eyes of predators, and hopefully the orcs as well—but it would not be for long, which was why Fheon was going to stand for the first watch.

There was no campfire. Beorn had given the dwarves only six bedrolls, which Thorin had given to the youngest of the Company—Bifur, Bombur, Fili, Kili, Ori, and of course, Elijah. Fheon still had her own bedroll. However worn-out and grimy it may have been, she still wanted to use it.

So the dwarves laid themselves down on the grass, and the ones with the bedrolls either sat or lied down on the soft material. Since there was no fire, Dori and Nori took out loaves of bread from their packs and distributed them to the Company.

When Fheon received her share, she placed the bread in-between her teeth and pulled her canteen of water out of her pack. She had refilled it earlier that day, and so it was rather full. Taking advantage of this, she retrieved Beorn’s pouch of coneflower from inside her pocket, grabbed a few of the leaves and petals, and tore them up and shoved them into her canteen. The smell of the pollen was appetizing enough, but Fheon knew most teas were like that, and that it did not promise the taste would be as appealing.

With lips pursed, she closed the lid and started shaking her canteen, making sure the properties of the coneflower were mixed into the last drop. Elijah watched her with curious yet amused eyes.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Coneflower,” said Fheon. “Beorn said it would make me feel better.”

“I do hope it tastes nothing like Sambuca.”

“I hope it tastes like chamomile,” she agreed, right before bringing the mouth of the canteen to her lips and taking in a large gulp, which was followed by an immediate grimace. “It tastes like chamomile, alright,” she said, shuddering. “But _much_ stronger.”

As her brother laughed at the look on her face, she took a bite out of the slice of bread she’d been given, hoping it would remove the flavor from her mouth even a little bit.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Company’s bread had disappeared—down their stomachs, Fheon knew—and they were already preparing to go to sleep. Thorin was on his feet leaning against a boulder, and she assumed that he was planning on stealing the first watch from her. His eyes were on her, an expectant gaze, a single raised eyebrow.

Sighing, Fheon took another swig of her coneflower drink, and it acted like alcohol for her confidence. “Who wants to hear a story?”

Ori’s head peeked out from beneath the blanket he had been provided with, and it was one of the few times where he truly looked like a child… despite the facial hair. “Is it a happy story?”

Fheon met his eyes and said, “Not particularly.”  Then she looked to her brother, who had been staring at her in confusion. She gave him a small, knowing smile, as well as a light shrug, and his face cleared up. He nodded, and she continued, “Is that alright?”

“Does it have fighting in it?” said Gloin.

Pursing her lips, Fheon looked to her brother again and found a humorless smile on his face. He said, “Only some.”

The dwarf grunted in response. “Fine. Go on, then.”

“Shall I go first or will you?” Fheon murmured to Elijah, meeting his eyes in steely determination.

If they were going to recount their childhood, they might as well do it with purpose. But she had gained a purpose that night after the attack, while she and her brother were wandering for refuge. The anger had been so strong, then, and it still was—as she waited for her brother’s reply.

He scooted closer to her and patted her back gently. “I’ll go.”

Fheon looked to Thorin for his consent. He nodded, and she took another swig of her strong medicinal drink. She could feel Thorin’s gaze on her, but made no move to return it. Patiently, she waited until the Company was ready, and then Elijah began.

“Several years ago, there was a village out by the Hills of Evendim. There, a farmer and his family lived,” he said. “The farmer’s name was Leon, and his wife was named Mina, after her grandmother. They had three children—Elijah, Talia, and Lenora.”

When the dwarves heard Elijah’s name, recognition flashed cross each of their faces, one by one. Fheon kept her eyes on the ground.

“Every day, Leon would take Elijah to the fields to tend the crops. Mina and her daughters would go to town to buy supplies and they would cook lunch and supper for the men, who never stayed out past dark. The family was happy.”

“Lenora was the youngest, but she took after her mother,” Fheon interjected softly. “She loved cooking, and would oftentimes journey to the bakery to learn from the old man there how to make cakes. The old man was kind, and always gave her cookies to bring home to her family. She was the perfect daughter, the perfect sister—good, kind, beautiful. Everybody loved her.”

Memories of the girl rushed forth in Fheon’s mind, and she struggled to push them away, to keep telling the story.

Thankfully, Elijah cut in. “But her siblings were just as lovable, of course,” he said, “And Elijah was ever more handsome.” He flashed his teeth cheekily, earning himself a rumble of both amusement and approval from the dwarves. “Their father, apart from being a farmer, was a respected hunter as well. Sometimes, he would even venture as far as the forests of Fornost to hunt, and would bring back enough fare for both his family and selling. This made him one of the most esteemed men in the village. When predators tried to attack in the night, he would take out his bow and hunting knife and strike them all down, alongside the menfolk of Evendim.”

“He was legendary with a bow,” said Fheon. “And so one day, when Elijah had just turned the proper age for a man, Leon took him out to the forests and gifted him with a bow. Hand-forged, unique—”

“Is that it?” Kili interrupted, nodding at the bow Elijah currently had.

Elijah shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“What happened to the hand-forged one?” said Fili.

“I’ll get to that,” said Elijah. “So, Leon gave his son a bow, complete with a quiver of arrows made by the local fletcher. He taught Elijah how to wield it properly, how to aim, the proper release. A month afterward, Elijah shot his first deer.” His statement was met with a hard pat on the back by Dwalin. “But Talia was also interested, you see. As often as she could, she would watch her father and brother practice, yet Leon would never take her out hunting. The problem was that Mina did not approve of her daughter handling a man’s weapon. She said Talia should have been more like Lenora, so that more men would want to court her, as she was nearing the proper age for it.”

“Talia was persistent,” Fheon finally spoke, after making sure her throat would not keep her words back. “Yet it was not Leon who agreed, but her brother, Elijah. He was the one who let her borrow his bow, and snuck off with her during the night to teach her. Mina grew suspicious, as well as Lenora and Leon, but they were less appalled by the idea. They were only half-oblivious for quite some time.”

Most likely remembering these events, Elijah managed a small smile—which quickly disappeared, as their story was drawing to a close, and the ending was not very cheerful.

“Lenora noticed the scrapes and welts on Talia’s hands and forearms before anyone else, but she did not have to tell Mina for her to see as well,” said Elijah. “That same night, as Mina stayed inside with Lenora to speak with Talia, and as Leon took Elijah outside the home so they could speak privately, a loud noise echoed all across the valley. A noise that would make the knees of clueless men buckle.”

Fheon drank from her canteen, though she could feel her brother’s eyes on her. And seeing as she was not going to say anything, he continued: “It was an orc horn, you see.” The Company, hearing this, adopted a more serious air. “And a village of men have only ever heard _tales_ about the vile creatures. They did not know the sound of a war horn when they heard it. The orcs raided the village atop wargs. Leading them was Azog, the Pale Orc, astride his White Warg.”

From the corner of her eye, Fheon spotted Thorin straighten up.

Elijah shook his head. “That time, almost everyone else was asleep, except for Leon’s family. Leon took his family deep into their house and locked all the doors, and they hid. But even from inside, they could hear everything that happened as the orcs destroyed and plundered the village: the screams of the men, women and children were ear-piercing.”

It was then that Elijah’s voice finally broke. He tried to hide it with a laugh, but even that was half-hearted. Abruptly, Fheon felt his hand snake around hers, gripping it tightly. Frowning, she continued for him.

“Leon refused to leave his family,” she said, “But doing so, he could not get to his weapons. Ultimately, the orcs found them. They killed Leon first—stabbed him through the heart.” (But that was not the truth, as they had actually beheaded him; Elijah didn’t seem to mind.) “Then they pulled the rest of the family out of the house, right before burning the entire village to the ground.” Her eyes stung with tears; she ducked her head as she blinked them away, finishing the story hurriedly: “Elijah and Talia were the only ones who escaped.”

The Company stayed quiet, no doubt letting the facts sink in. Yet as always, it was Bilbo who had the guts to speak first. “Quick question, um…” he said, looking at Fheon. “You don’t happen to be Talia, do you?”

And even then, his voice was shaky. Fheon took this as a sign of his sentimentality, but did not answer right away. By Thorin, she heard Gandalf clear his throat, like a rumble in his chest. She stared at him pointedly before saying, “Talia was a weak, young girl—someone I left to burn in the fires of my home. She no longer exists.”

Elijah squeezed her hand and raised his eyes to look at the Company. “So how did you like the story?” he said. “I hope it wasn’t too depressing. We can’t be feeling like that tomorrow, venturing through Mirkwood—which is gloomy _enough_ , I must say.”

Fheon sighed softly, pondering how her brother could do that, how he was able to return to his gleeful ways so quickly.

“We had no idea,” said Balin. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

After a moment of thought, she answered, “Sentiments. You understand.”

“You can tell us anything, you know,” said Bofur. “I mean, you might as well. We’re going to be together for a much longer while. And you’re a part of the Company now.”

“Aye,” Kili agreed, and then Fili, and then Nori, and then Bilbo, and then soon, every one of the Company had said the word, except for Thorin. He only nodded.

Gandalf cleared his throat again with a subtle smile on his face, before saying, “Alright, story time is over. All of you, get some sleep.”

“Impossible,” Elijah said to Fheon under his breath, and she smiled half-heartedly.

Her attention had stayed on Thorin, who seemed to be intent on keeping his position on the watch. “Get away from there, Thorin,” she told him. “I’ll be taking first watch tonight.”

“You’re sure?” he said, uncrossing his arms and looking at her oddly.

“Very.”

She felt her brother’s hand tighten around hers, trying to pull her back, but she threw him a warning glare, shook his hand off and walked to the boulder Thorin had been leaning against. Her eyes scanned the space within their little rock formation, checking to see if everyone had indeed gone to sleep.

Elijah held his head up using his hand with his elbow planted on the ground, staring at her with scrunched eyebrows. He was worried, no doubt. But he of all people should have known that she would forget all about it if only he would leave her alone, leave her to sort out her thoughts on her own.

She threw him another exasperated glare, this time more insistent. He looked away. Laid down on the grass and turned on his side, away from her, to sleep.

Sliding down to sit cross-legged on the ground, Fheon took her bow into her hands and slid her fingers across the smooth wooden base. She missed holding it, gripping it tight as she drew the string back with an arrow nocked. It had not even been very long yet, not even a week. She supposed she had to get used to it, at least until her shoulder healed up—lest she want the pain to grow.

Thinking this, a saying her father used to say sprung to mind: _“Take the pain and anything that comes with it, but don’t let it defeat you, or the wolves won’t even have a good meal out of you.”_

He had never actually said it to her or to Lenora, but to Elijah. Whenever they came home from a hunt or a practice session in archery, and Elijah was complaining to Fheon and Lenora about the ache in his limbs, their father was always there to hear it.

Fheon never forgot those words, especially during the first month after their village burned down. The pain that had come from her burns was excruciating, but she never let it defeat her, and Elijah never let her forget.

Unbeknownst to her, a single tear had strayed from her eye and reached her chin, where it fell onto her hand. She hurriedly wiped at her cheeks and at her eyes, rubbing the moisture away from her face. She took a deep breath and composed herself, returning her bow over her shoulder and replacing it with her sword.

Suddenly, a low, gruff voice reached her ears. “How did you escape Azog?”

Fheon turned her head to find Thorin standing amidst the snoring dwarves, face as grim as it was before. Apparently, he still did not have all the answers he had wanted.

“Luck, mostly,” she murmured in reply. “He was going to kill me, but Elijah got by just in time. I don’t know what he did. After that, I had to pretend I was dead. I think that, that day, Azog was not feeling particularly up to his title to _defile_.”

Thorin did not laugh. He slowly made his way to her. “I find it bigoted that he did not make sure every one of you was dead.”

“Would you rather I and my brother were dead, then?”

He paused. “I never said that.”

“He did a good enough job anyway,” said Fheon, bristling slightly. “Killed my mother, my father, my _sister_ —the entire village, and then burned everything else. Like I said, luck was with me and Elijah… But everyone else was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

To her surprise, after what seemed to be a moment of hesitation, the Dwarf King said, “I offer my condolences. We all do.”

“It is appreciated, and returned,” she replied softly. “But really, Thorin, you should get some sleep.”

“Sadly, that is impossible under present circumstances. The looming threat is too great for me to be able to close my eyes and fall asleep.”

Fheon smiled lightly. “ _Impossible._ That’s what Elijah said, and yet look at him now—sleeping like a baby.” She and Thorin both glanced at the sleeping man, who was snoring softly with his chin tucked into his chest. Vaguely, she heard Thorin chuckle under his breath, and raised an eyebrow. “It is very rare for the great Thorin Oakenshield to laugh at something. My brother will rejoice when he hears that he was the subject of such happenings.”

The King Under the Mountain looked at her with a deep frown. “Is that an insult?”

“It’s a _joke_ ,” she said. “I would not insult you again. Believe it or not, I’ve grown quite fond of you and your kin.”

“And we you.”

She could feel his eyes boring into her, and could not help but to meet his gaze. She had never stopped to admire them before, but his eyes were a rather beautiful shade of blue. It deeply contrasted his sometimes ill-mannered behavior, for sure.

“But indeed,” he said, “the Company has not seen you smile or heard you laugh in quite some time, Ranger. Are you ill?”

“Quite ill,” said Fheon, lightly tapping her left shoulder. “But you’d be disappointed to find that I’ve been smiling all this time, even right now.” She subtly raised her eyebrows at him, not smiling at all, which brought the planned effect on him.

The corners of her lips twitched up slightly, and his gaze softened. “How is your shoulder?”

“Not much better, but it’s on its way.”

“That’s good. Once we reach Mirkwood—”

“It won’t be fine by then,” she interrupted swiftly. “You understand that.”

“I do.”

“But my brother will be there to help. You must trust him.”

“I do.”

Fheon glanced at him to find an expectant look in his eye. She shook her head slightly and turned away, muttering, “Get some sleep, Thorin.” It was not a request, this time.

After a beat, he nodded and turned, looking as if he was about to walk away, but said at the last second, “I had two siblings, a sister and a brother. Now I only have a sister.”

Surprised, Fheon raised her head and met his gaze again, finding his blue eyes filled with such familiarity and sadness that it made her heart clench. “Dis,” she murmured, “Fili and Kili’s mother.”

Thorin nodded. “My younger brother, Frerin, perished at the Battle of Azanulbizar.” He was quiet for a long while, just staring at her. And then he said, “You and I are not very different, Fheon. And so I must apologize for acting so revoltingly towards you. I suppose it’s just because you…” He trailed off, almost hesitantly.

Fheon offered a small smile; she had a distinct idea of what he was trying to say, but decided that it was best he kept it to himself.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Apology accepted. Now, sleep.”

He turned away and returned to his place beside Balin and Dwalin, and there he lied down on the grass, facing upwards to the stars, and closed his eyes. Fheon did not let her gaze linger for long, and instead scanned the Company once more, to find that one of them was not asleep.

It was Gandalf, and he was looking at her with a knowing glint in his eye. She narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing, instead returning her attention to the wilderness surrounding them. Her senses had not even turned dull in the slightest, and she knew that it was going to be a long night.


	14. Mirkwood I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's action in the next one. I promise. XD

The tree-line of Mirkwood was like something that had come out of a dark fairytale, with almost no leaves growing on the branches, and the very little that did were as gray as the roots of the tree itself. Even the grass and the shrubs within a ten-mile radius of their entrance were dull, no longer evergreen like they were supposed to be. Gandalf dismounted his horse and walked forward, through two seemingly manmade pillars. Vines crawled up the pillars and down the path like snakes. Beneath Gandalf’s feet, the grey marble path was littered with dead leaves.

“The Elven Gate,” the wizard remarked quietly. “Here lies our path through Mirkwood.”

Anxiously, Fheon dismounted her pony but was not followed by Elijah. She heard the caw of a hawk, and then her brother mumbling.

“Send a message to Hiram,” she told him. “Tell him we’re nearing Erebor and that he should stop sending us messages… Cali will be staying there with him from now on too.”

“What?” said Elijah, frowning deeply. “Why?”

“It’s too risky to have Cali flying with us now, with Azog having a price on our heads. If they see her, they’ll hone in on our destination. We’re too close to Erebor for us to be able to risk that anymore.” Seeing her brother’s distressed expression, she softened her gaze and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’ll miss her too. But we’ll see her again, when we get back—”

“ _If_ we get back,” Elijah corrected, putting on a cynical smile as he stroked Cali’s feathers.

Fheon sighed, but nodded. “If we get back.” She waited for him to pull out a pen and a strip of parchment before turning around.

She followed Gandalf through the entrance and scanned the surrounding area. Something definitely was not right. Fheon could feel it, a heaviness weighing down on her mind, squeezing her heart and closing in on her senses. She felt as if she had been buried alive. Trying to steady her breathing, she squared her shoulders, let out a large huff of breath, and walked about the clearing, trying to make sense of the kind of force they were going to be up against.

“No sign of the orcs,” said Dwalin, as the rest of the Company dismounted their ponies. “We have luck on our side.”

_Luck,_ Fheon inwardly scoffed. She turned around and shared a knowing glance with Thorin. He looked at her in acknowledgement but said nothing; the situation was far too grim for his liking. Fheon drifted to stand by the stone basin in the middle of the path, running her finger across the dark blue veins instilled within the smooth rock. Doing this did nothing to ease her anxiety. It, in fact, only made her feel worse.

Shaking her head, she walked back out to the Company, and out from beneath the looming trees, with wide strides. Past her eyelashes, she sensed something moving, and raised her head to find Beorn standing atop a cliff-face in his beastly form, looking down on the forest they had come from.

“Set the ponies loose,” Gandalf ordered, his eyes staying on Beorn. “Let them return to their master.”

The dwarves did as they were told, albeit slightly hesitant. Fheon watched as Dori removed her pack from her pony’s saddle, and murmured him thanks when he handed it to her. She swung one strap over her right shoulder and, as soon as she felt that her pack was not at all too heavy, resumed with the other strap. There was a flash of pain when she had to move her shoulder a bit in order to accommodate the strap, and she was irked to find that it remained, throbbing, for quite some time.

“This forest feels sick,” said Bilbo as he looked down the marble path, “as if a disease lies upon it.”

Fheon pursed her lips subtly and said, “If you feel that way now, wait until you walk into it.”

The hobbit looked up at her with an alarmed, wide-eyed expression on his face. “Is there no way around?” he asked seriously.

“Not unless we go 200 miles north,” said Gandalf. “Or twice that distance south.”

Bilbo sighed, and Fheon did the same. She ran a hand across her shoulder as she felt the lemon balm start to take effect, cooling her skin. She noticed that Cali was no longer perched on Elijah’s shoulder, and a hint of sadness stabbed at her heart. Doing her best to ignore this, she called her brother over to get her water canteen from her pack and took two large gulps of the coneflower-infused water, grimacing at the taste. Immediately afterwards, she popped a leaf of parsley into her mouth, and then handed a few more away to Bilbo and to the dwarves who wanted it.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Gandalf walking deeper into the clearing beneath the trees, slowly, as if he were in a trance. While Elijah sniffed the mouth of her water canteen, she narrowed her eyes to find Gandalf standing in front of what looked to be a statue—a stone statue of a woman, which had been covered with vines and weeds over the course of the years.

Suddenly, Gandalf brought his hand up and pulled down a large bunch of the creepers. Revealed was a symbol that had been drawn in red onto the statue. It was not a symbol Fheon had been accustomed to, but judging from the way Gandalf did not exactly rejoice at the sight of it, it was sure to be nothing good.

The wizard muttered something to himself before whirling around and saying, “Not my horse! I need it!”

By then, Nori had released every last one of their ponies except for Gandalf’s black steed. By the looks of it, the wizard had voiced the order at exactly the right time. The dwarves standing around in a huddle raised their heads and voiced their confusion. Fheon could not blame them; she was feeling the same way.

“You’re not leaving us?” said Bilbo.

“I would not do this unless I had to,” said Gandalf, a determined expression on his face. As he was about to go to his horse, he stopped and turned to the hobbit once more, saying, “You’ve changed, Bilbo Baggins. You’re not the same hobbit as the one who left The Shire.”

Bilbo’s face seemed to clear up, and he shifted on his feet. “I was going to tell you. I found something in the Goblin Tunnels,” he said, and in her curiosity, Fheon found herself inching closer. She noticed his two fingers were in his pocket, and only then recalled that he had been doing that for a while now. A habit, perhaps?

“Found what?” Gandalf urged. “What did you find?”

The hobbit was quiet for a moment, and then he dropped his hand from his pocket and said, “My courage.”

Fheon narrowed her eyes slightly in suspicion, but if Gandalf was disappointed by such an answer, then he did not show it. “Good, that’s good,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

Bilbo shrugged, smiling slightly. It started to rain—only a drizzle, thankfully, for Fheon did not know if her shoulder could carry the weight of her bow, her pack, and a sopping wet cloak.

“I’ll be waiting for you at the overlook, before the slopes of Erebor,” Gandalf continued, taking the reins of his horse from Nori and then giving Thorin a pointed look. “Keep the map and key safe. Do not enter that mountain without me.”

Thorin nodded, but looked quite tentative when he did so.

“This is not the Greenwood of old,” said Gandalf. “The very air of the forest is heavy with illusion. It’ll seek to enter your mind and lead you astray.”

“ _Lead us astray?_ ” Bilbo repeated beside Fheon, looking at her questioningly. “What does that mean?”

She wanted to ask the same thing, and so she rushed towards Gandalf just as he was mounting his horse. “Gandalf, this is madness,” she hissed in impatience. “You can’t possibly leave us to venture forth _alone_ —a hobbit, thirteen dwarves, and two humans—into a forest enchanted with dark magic. We will surely go astray!”

He raised an eyebrow. “The mind is stronger than you think, Fheon.”

“It is not,” she retorted. “Not mine and not my brother’s. We are here to protect this Company. How can we do so if you force us to go through such shortcomings?”

“You and your brother are here for a much greater purpose,” the wizard said, his tone becoming much more hushed. “And as for the dark magic on this forest…” He turned his horse around, forcing Fheon to back up. She bristled but did her best to show no signs of angst on her face as he concluded, “You must stay on the path. Do not leave it. If you do, you’ll never find it again.”

He spurred his horse and started to become farther away, but not before he added, “No matter what may come, stay on the path!” Yet Fheon was no longer facing him, but had turned her attention to the Company.

“Alright then,” she said. “Thorin, I think it best if you lead—followed by Elijah, then me, then Bilbo and then the rest of the Company.” She sighed inwardly. “Now I want this journey through Mirkwood to be as clean and quick as possible. The bright side is Azog would not dare venture into the forest after us. He knows they will not succeed in getting through alive. So here it is: _No one strays from the path_. You must focus on the road ahead, not on anything else. Do not let your thoughts wander, or we’ll all be lost.”

Elijah whistled softly and placed a hand on the top of her head, to which she ducked and backed away from. “How very enlightening, sister,” he said. “Do tell us more.”

She ignored him and gestured to Thorin. The Dwarf King nodded, having a somewhat grateful look on his face, before turning around and taking to the head of the Company.

“Come on,” he said. “We must reach the mountain before the sun sets on Durin’s Day. It is our one chance to find the hidden door!”

The dwarves murmured amongst themselves in agreement as Fheon pulled Bilbo along with her to walk behind Thorin, with Elijah beside her. They walked through the Elven Gate, past the stone basin and the stone statue, and soon, they were surrounded with nothing but trees.

Fheon kept Elijah close and Bilbo even closer. Behind them, the dwarves were deathly quiet, and she hoped that they were in a state of concentration instead of distracting themselves with the many mushrooms they were walking past. No doubt, at least some of them were thinking about uprooting a few handfuls so they could cook it for stew. None of them even knew if anything in the forest was edible anymore. And so Fheon had to keep glancing over her shoulder and hissing reminders at the dwarves. She knew, however, that they were not the most sturdy-minded beings, and that Thorin had to keep his head if they were going to walk out of the forest in one piece.

Forcing herself to focus, Fheon counted the seconds that passed in her head. Every time she reached sixty, she would start over—always keeping her head down, always checking if everyone in Company was following, and always making sure they were on the right path.

It was to her dismay that, early on, they encountered a few problems with staying on the path. There was a fork in the road, but by then it had become almost impossible to see the road through the sea of dead leaves.

“Which way?” she heard Thorin grumble to himself uncertainly.

She rushed forward and kicked away a bunch of the leaves, revealing the path to them once more—the one on the right. The one on the left was merely a dirt road that led downwards, but it seemed that Oin had already lost focus in such an early stage of their venture.

“This one, here!” he said, pointing at the left path.

“No, the path leads here!” Bofur argued, referring to the one on the right.

“It goes here though!” said Dwalin, this time, pointing at a valley between two trees; nothing was there. “Can’t you tell?”

“Quiet,” Fheon snapped. “All of you! The path goes this way.” She pointed to the right path. “What did I say about staying focused? Thorin, keep going.”

The Dwarf King nodded before proceeding to walk onto the path on their right. Fheon slowly walked on, fingering the hem of her cloak as the numbers in her head continued at 42. But five steps in, someone grabbed her arm from behind and stopped her in her tracks. She turned to find Elijah standing there, his face heavy with concern. “What?” she questioned.

“What are you doing?” he said, pointing to his right. “The path goes this way.”

“What—?” Frowning, she returned her gaze to the path before her and found that she was on the dirt road, the one leading downhill. When she turned her head she found Thorin, Bilbo and the other dwarves very much on the right track, walking on the grey brick road. “N-no, I know,” she was able to stutter out. “I was just checking something.”

“Okay,” said Elijah, letting go of her arm. “Just, make sure to catch up, alright?”

“Of course.” Fheon watched him return to the head of the Company, with Thorin and Bilbo. She followed close behind him, shaking her head and, in her mind, starting over at the number one.

Thorin continued leading the Company deeper into the forest, never faltering in his footsteps. Fheon made sure to frequently kick the leaves on the ground aside to reveal the path before them, but the weight on her chest was becoming unbearable. Her mind felt overcrowded, and starting over with her counting became a regular happening.

Tailing her, the dwarves were not doing any better. They had started mumbling to themselves about the most pointless things. Fheon’s reminders started becoming more irregular. Each time she looked back, there seemed to be one or two less mushrooms rooted by the trees.

As their venture wore on, the sea of dead leaves started becoming thicker and the fog much heavier. There were more twists and turns, more forks in the road that they had to spend more and more time on figuring out which one was the right one.

Elijah was barely keeping it together, Fheon knew, for she had noticed the way his footsteps were becoming heavier, his stride turning shaky and uneven. Oftentimes he would lose his balance and stumble off the path, but Fheon was just thankful that he always got himself back on his feet.

Another fork in the road came, but Thorin did not call for help. He brought the butt of his axe down, thumping against the ground until it collided with stone. “This way,” he said and then continued down the path.

_46, 47, 48, 49…_

“Air,” said Bofur. “I need air…”

“My head,” Gloin added. “It’s swimming!”

“What’s happening?” said Oin bumping into Fheon’s back and sending a flash of pain up her shoulder.

She winced, and shouted in return, “Everyone, stay focused!”

_1, 2, 3, 4… 1, 2, 3, 4… 7… 7… 1, 2, 3, 4…_

“Keep moving!” Thorin ordered, walking past Ori and Nori, who had unknowingly taken the lead. “Nori, why have you stopped?”

Said dwarf raised a shaky finger and pointed ahead of him, saying, “The path… it’s disappeared!”

Alarm descended on Fheon and she rushed forward, past everyone else, to see that they had led themselves to the edge of a cliff, a dead-end. There was a sharp turn to their left, but glancing down, she could already see that there was no stone path beneath their feet.

Barely keeping the scowl off her face, she turned on Thorin and muttered, “This is why I wanted _you_ to lead, not _Nori_.”

“Do not blame _me_ ,” he growled back.

“I never was—”

Elijah walked up from the back, interrupting them. “What’s happened?” he said.

“We’ve lost the path,” said Ori, sounding very panicked with his small voice.

“Find it,” Thorin ordered gruffly. “All of you look. Look for the path!”

“No!” Fheon argued. “We must go back. We must have lost the path back there. It would not be here—”

“It would not be back there either!” said Thorin. “It is here… Everyone, keep looking!”

Fheon bristled; she had thought they had formed a bond of some sort—that he would trust her more than he currently was, after everything they had shared. She tried to keep in mind that it was the forest weakening his mind, and did her best to continue to contend, but none of them were listening anymore.

The dwarves had started scrambling about, nearly on their hands and knees as they shoved piles of dead leaves away to reveal nothing but dirt of the earth. Bilbo was not taking part in the search, thankfully, but he had started fingering the hem of his pocket again. And as much as Fheon wanted to know what it was on him that had him so distracted, she could not let Thorin lead the Company astray any further.

“Elijah,” she called; though her heart dropped when she found him searching alongside the dwarves, eyes glazed over and mouth hanging slightly open.

Before she could get any closer to him, coldness seeped over her body. Thoughts of walking around in the dark forest for eternity started becoming a much more appealing idea to her as the moment passed.

She remembered how her family had died, and was suddenly filled with such sadness; then she remembered the things Thorin had said about she and her brother being weak and useless, and she was filled with a hot anger for the dwarf. Before she knew it, her hand had drifted to the hilt of her sword. The sound of Bilbo’s voice brought her back to her senses.

“What is it?” he asked. “Is something there?”

“N-nothing,” she managed, shaking her head vigorously. In an effort to regain her senses, she unclipped her water canteen from her belt and took a large swig, allowing the strong taste of it to burn down her throat. It tasted even worse with warm water. “Bilbo, you believe me, right?” she continued. “That we have to go back?”

He frowned. “Well, yes, I-I suppose… Where is back, exactly?”

“No one will listen to me. They’re too far gone… We’ll have to find it ourselves and come back here.”

She grabbed his hand and started leading him back the road they had come from. There, she discerned that they had never been walking on a path in the first place. How had she gotten so distracted as to not notice that before?

“Fheon, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Bilbo.

“What? Why?”

“Don’t you think that, when we have to come back, we’ll get lost as well?”

Sighing, she glanced at him disapprovingly. “Thank you for giving me such a wonderful, happy thought, Bilbo.”

“Sorry.”

“How is your mind, by the way? You’ve been doing better than the rest of us, I’ve noticed.”

“Oh, not much better,” said the hobbit, clearing his throat. “I would have started crawling around with the dwarves just now, if I hadn’t noticed you start to pull your sword out. Why were you doing that anyway?”

He looked at her, but she did not do the same. “Like I said, your mind is in much better shape than mine.” Then they came across a fork in the road, and she found that she did not remember which way they had come from. “We came from the west, right?”

“Thorin has been leading us east,” Bilbo clarified. “The problem is, none of us remember which way _is_ east.”

“These damn trees are keeping us from seeing the sun.” She bit the inside of her cheek in frustration, glancing down at a mushroom on the ground. A memory sprung to mind—of her keeping Bombur from uprooting the very same mushroom—and she knew which way they had come from.

She gestured for Bilbo to follow, ignoring the fact that he had muttered something to himself—something about getting above the canopy of his bed—and strode forward. “Come, Bilbo. I’ve remembered. It’s this way!”

Choosing the path on her right, Fheon surged forward with renewed vigor, grinning mindlessly as she went. Another turn came, and she took another swig of her drink, refurbishing her sanity. The smile disappeared from her face and she hurried on, resuming the countdown in her head once more, doing her best to keep herself lucid. But with every twist and turn, she found herself barely being able to know which path was the right one. It was driving her mad, ever so slowly.

But there came a time when there was a hump on the ground. Unknowingly, she tripped over it, and only just kept herself from landing on her left shoulder.

A grimace made its way onto her face as she pulled herself back onto her feet, glancing down at the hump that had caused her fall. Her heart leapt up into her throat when she saw white stone peeking out from beneath the leaves. She excitedly got down on her knees and swept more of the leaves away, managing a smile of triumph when she discovered more of the Elven path. She had found it.

“Bilbo!” she called. “Bilbo, I’ve found the path! Bilbo!”

When still no reply came, she finally tore her eyes away from the path and looked over her shoulder, only to find that the hobbit was no longer trailing behind her. She searched for him behind trees, even above her—for perhaps he had decided to climb up to get a better view—but he was nowhere in sight.

Cursing under her breath, she turned around and backtracked, but this time making sure that the path could be seen easily. She kicked the dead leaves off the stone road, slowly and carefully making her way back to the dwarves. All the while, she kept yelling for Bilbo, for surely no one else was in the dark forest with them.

Or, at least, as far as she knew.


	15. Mirkwood II

"Where the bloody hell is that hobbit?" Fheon muttered to herself, starting to get irked. "Bilbo! BILBO—!"

Her voice got caught in her throat when a monstrous shriek echoed down from above her. It was followed by a gurgling sound and a shadow appearing from behind the very thick canopy of branches.

Instinctively, Fheon unsheathed her sword and brandished it, readying herself for whatever was coming. But then came the unmistakable sound of wood crackling, breaking apart; the shadow quickly became bigger and bigger, and she barely was able to dive to the side in order to save herself from being crushed. She brought her sword-arm up to keep large remnants of wood from falling onto her face, only to jump back onto her feet when she felt the ground tremble due to heavy impact.

Something had fallen from the trees above, and it was far too large to be either a dwarf or a hobbit.

Scrambling to regain her footing, a light throbbing sensation started in her shoulder, making Fheon grimace as she looked down at the beast that had fallen from above. It looked to be a spider; a very, _very_ large spider—about the size of three dwarves compressed together. Though its legs were curled up, hopefully because it was dead, Fheon was positive that even those were longer than her own self.

She raised her head and searched for anything else moving above her, perhaps another falling spider, but there was nothing apart from the rustling of leaves. She knew, then, that she had to find the Company before the rest of the giant spiders did.

However, just as she was about to do so, the spider's mandibles clicked together once, and then were followed by a twitch of its legs. Panicking slightly, Fheon rushed to the front of the spider and hurriedly brought her sword down on its head, right into its eye.

A gurgling sound erupted once more from its mouth, but its legs curled up even more around its abdomen, and it stopped twitching. Fheon pulled her sword out and gagged inwardly when a spurt of blood sprayed across her face; the dark liquid smelled like the insides of a rotten fruit. She noticed that the blood was not only gushing forth from its head, but from its stomach as well, and she was positive that she had not been the one to stab it in the gut.

Warily, Fheon walked forward and regarded the wound on its belly with interest. There was a tiny gash right in the middle, barely enough to qualify as a fatal injury, but it looked to be very deep. She started wondering whether spiders killed their own kind, or if there was something else above past the canopy.

Her musings were further clarified when another shriek reached her ears, shadowed by the unmistakable sound of an iron blade. Recognition flashed across her face before she started scaling up a tree. And though Beorn's shoulder brace offered her extra support, she was thankful that the fungi growing on the tree trunks served as brilliant footholds.

The higher she climbed, the more her anxiety grew. A wide expanse of whiteness came into view; before, she had thought it to be a reflection of the little sunlight that could have been seeping through the leaves above.

Now she saw that it was, in fact, a vast stretch of spider webs.

Spanning across almost the entire forest ceiling, it looked to be thick enough for Fheon to be able to stand on it without falling. But the spider-bed being as large as it was meant there were more than just three giant spiders. There had to be a whole cluster of them.

Gritting through the pain, Fheon scaled past yet another branch, and was nearing the bottom of the spider-bed—so close she could almost reach it—when something tore through the translucent material, just barely missing Fheon's head.

Her breath caught in her throat as she flattened herself against the base of the tree, unconsciously shutting her eyes as she heard the end of the branch she'd just passed, snap. It had been a rather thick branch as well.

She already had suspicions that yet another giant spider had fallen, but she did not expect to see Bilbo scrambling onto his feet beside it when she glanced down.

"Bilbo!" she called down to him. "What happened?"

"I'm fine!" he said, not particularly answering her question. "You have to free the others!"

"Where are they?"

"Keep going up."

She did as he said, gasping when her hand slipped from the handhold. "How many are there?" she asked.

"A lot," the hobbit replied, and that was information enough.

Fheon finally reached a high enough spot to be able to peek above the spider-bed, sighing inwardly in relief when she found that none of the spiders were near there. Bilbo must have caused a distraction somewhere far off. Using this as an advantage, she pulled herself onto a branch and walked on it, making sure her foot did not catch on the many webs.

She spotted several lumps of webbing on the mesh only a few feet away from her, and sprang into action as soon as she noticed them wriggling about. She ran towards the squirming protuberances and, pulling at the front of the webbing, dug her blade about a centimeter deep before sharply pulling her arm back.

The webbing opened up to reveal Dwalin, gasping for air; she had previously noticed that it was one of the larger lumps.

"Free," he practically hollered. "Where are those bastards? I'll gut them open like a virgin on her wedding night—"

"Do you have your weapons?" Fheon interrupted impatiently.

"Aye—"

"Start freeing the others. We have to get out of here."

The dwarf immediately stood up and freed his battle axe from the webbing on his back. "Don't impale any of them," Fheon quickly added as she cut open another sack of web, this time revealing Thorin.

He looked up at her in surprise. "Fheon…?"

"I told you we were searching at the wrong place," she muttered, pulling himself onto his feet. "Come, we don't have much time. Free the others."

She had ample time to notice the sparkle in his eyes as he looked at her for a long moment, before scrambling away. He did as she said immediately and cut into his first sack, freeing his nephew Fili. Ignoring the faint fluttering sensation in her stomach, Fheon softly called for her brother and rushed to the web sack that started writhing even more wildly at the sound of her voice.

Piercing the thick mesh, she watched as Elijah's untamed hair sprung out from beneath the weave, followed by his hands as he ripped his sticky cage apart.

"Fheon," he said, making her subtly roll her eyes at the hint of astonishment in his voice. "How did you come by us? I thought you had run off to find the path—"

"It doesn't matter. The spiders will come back," she cut him off, and then turned to the others to find everyone freed from their webbed prisons. "Everyone, start climbing down—NOW!"

Then, Ori pointed a finger to somewhere behind them, and everyone turned around to find at least a dozen of the giant spiders scuttling towards them. The webs did nothing to bother them, which was sure to be an advantage of theirs.

"DOWN!" said Elijah and the Company quickly latched onto any of the handholds they could find. They began scaling back down the dark trees of Mirkwood. Some of them fell, but it was at such a point that they could afford to, because the ground was not far off beneath them anymore. Elijah took the lead and started running.

Fheon glanced behind her to make sure everyone was following, but her heart dropped when she remembered Bilbo. He was not among them.

A startled yell escaped Elijah's mouth and he stumbled backwards, barely keeping himself from being impaled by the leg of a spider that had appeared before him. He slashed at the leg, cutting it off, and then presumed to decapitate the spider itself.

Fheon tugged sharply at his sleeve and redirected them to their east, but was halted by yet another spider looming over her. She hacked at its two front legs in a quick maneuver, making it lose balance. Then she whirled around to find Bombur pinned beneath one of the massive creatures.

Before she could do anything, eight dwarves suddenly rushed forward, with Gloin shouting, "Grab the legs!" And each of them did. "Pull!" And they all started tugging, with Bombur struggling to keep the spider's mandibles from eating his face off.

Fheon could watch no longer, as another spider had wandered too close to Kili. She ran up from behind it and jumped onto its back, digging her sword into its head.

Kili looked up from the spider he had killed himself and smiled widely. "Thanks," he said, and then hacked at another one of the creatures. Seconds later, the dwarves succeeded in pulling the legs off Bombur's attacker. Fheon jumped off the spider she had killed and repeated her technique with two more, before she noticed the Company turn back. Someone started pushing her and she saw that it was Thorin.

"Run!" he said, and she did not need to be told twice.

First checking if her brother was among the group ahead of them, she started running just as fast as Thorin. When two spiders tried to cut them off, Kili and Elijah were able to shoot them dead.

Dwalin axed a wall of web into half to reveal Bilbo sitting on the ground, a dead, _white_ spider in front of him. 

"We're clear!" said Thorin, halting slightly to check behind them.

Just then, a spider suddenly lowered itself a few feet away from Bilbo. Seeing as the dwarves just froze on the spot, Fheon was the one to rush forward and pull the hobbit back. She swung her sword at the spider's leg, but it scuttled back just in time.

She retreated behind Dwalin's larger weapon with Bilbo; she was waiting for the dwarf to hack at the spider's head and cut it open, but then a flash of yellow caught her attention.

Her head snapped up to see a figure descending from the low hill up ahead, atop one of the spiders. Fheon could not be sure if it was man or woman, but the mane of light golden hair on its head assured her that it must have been an elf.

The elf stabbed the spider in the head, jumped off it, and then rolled onto his back to slide below the spider that had threatened Bilbo earlier. There was a sharp slicing sound and then the spider fell dead onto its stomach. The elf pulled himself onto his feet with such grace that Fheon nearly did not notice the arrow he had pointed at them.

Instinctively, she raised her blade until the tip of it was aligned with the point of his arrow.

By then, she had been able to discern by his broad chest and hard facial features that the elf was, in fact, a male. But this did nothing to discourage her from keeping her weapon raised. Even when she heard the familiar sound of _multiple_ bowstrings being drawn, she returned the golden-haired, male elf's gaze with equal coldness.

"Do not think I won't kill your dwarf allies, Ranger," he detachedly stated. "It would be my pleasure."

A hand settled on Fheon's shoulder, followed by the voice of Elijah. "Fheon," he said quietly, but with a lingering warning behind his one word.

Gritting her teeth, Fheon was about to say something to the elf in front of her that was just as aloof, the perfect retort; before she could, a loud cry of help echoed into the clearing.

"KILI!" one of the dwarves behind her yelled, and her determined gaze faltered. Even more so when Elijah stepped up from behind her and literally pushed her sword-arm down. The warning look had become much more profound in his eyes, and his jaw was set.

Fheon switched her glare to him, but otherwise allowed one of the elves push her closer to the dwarves so that their Company formed a huddle. It was only then that she noticed a dozen elves had surrounded them, if not more.

Barely a minute later, Kili appeared from behind a thick neck of trees, trailed by an auburn-haired she-elf who had her blade pointed at his back. Fheon narrowed her eyes at them as the elves began searching them.

It was a male elf who ran his hands across her body, but he did not seem to care about exactly what he was touching. He pried her sword from her fingers and grunted in Elvish, nodding at her bow. Naturally, she was reluctant; from the corner of her eye, she found Elijah practically giving away his bow, along with his quiver full of arrows. Scowling unhappily, Fheon removed her bow and quiver from over her shoulder and shoved them into the elf's hands.

Another elf started tugging at the pack on her back, making her hiss in pain.

"Careful," Elijah hastily said. "She's wounded at her left shoulder."

"Hand over the pack," the elf said to Fheon, in common-tongue, this time. Fheon sighed in exasperation, but otherwise slipped her pack off her back and gave it to him.

When he pulled out the three pouches of herbs Beorn had given her, however, she immediately stole them back. "I need these," she said, "For my shoulder."

"What's in them?" asked the elf.

"Coneflower, lemon balm, parsley, and some rosemary."

He glanced at his fellow elf, and for a while they muttered amongst themselves in Elvish, before he nodded. "You may keep them."

"Thank you," she muttered, pocketing the bags once more. She felt slightly grateful, but then was brought back to her bad mood when she was forced to give them her belt, along with her water canteen; then the elf felt at her injured shoulder. He raised an eyebrow, and she said to him with gritted teeth, "It's a brace for my shoulder. _Please don't touch it_."

For a long moment, he looked like he was going to ask her to remove it anyway. So she sighed, saying, "I don't have any more weapons on me. You have my word."

He regarded her with blank eyes for a while longer before saying, "And a Ranger of the North better keep her word." He nodded at the elf behind Fheon, said something in Elvish, and then left Fheon there, completely powerless and utterly weaponless.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she glanced about and saw the rest of the Company in the same state, though they were much less subtle about their frustration. Elijah kept his composure, and Fheon struggled to do the same as one of the elves took Orcrist from Thorin and gave it to the golden-haired elf.

He said something in Elvish, looking down at the blade in his hands and brandishing it as if it was the most perfect sword in the world. Though, if Fheon thought about it, he was most likely thinking that, knowing that the sword had been forged by his kind. His gaze turned cold again as he turned his attention to Thorin.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"It was given to me," said Thorin.

In a flash, the elf had Orcrist pointed at Thorin's throat, and it was all Fheon could do to stay pinned on her spot.

"Not just a thief," said the elf, "but a liar as well."

A rough quality entered his voice as he said something to his followers in Elvish, and then before Fheon knew it, they were being led out of the clearing. She trailed behind the Company, beside her brother. One of the elves constantly prodded at her back, and she finally allowed a scowl to creep onto her face. They were led back to the Elven road, to the very same spot Fheon had found when she had originally ventured away from the dazed Company with Bilbo.

Remembering the hobbit, she glanced about their Company and became slightly unnerved when she found that he was not in their ranks. Had he not been with them when the golden-haired elf slid into their midst the first time around? Fheon was positive that Bilbo had been clutching her wrist just as the elf had descended from the string of web. Where had he gone?

She came to the conclusion that at least half of the Company had also noticed, for they were looking around with wild, searching eyes, resulting in the elves handling them much less gently.

"You didn't see a hobbit, about yay high, walking around here, did you?" Fheon heard Bofur ask, to which the golden-haired elf only scowled and shoved him forward, barking something in Elvish.

A reflection of his scowl eased onto Fheon's face.

All the while, the dark trees surrounding them slowly turned lighter, the forest ceiling becoming thinner and finally, for what seemed like such a long time, the Company was once again touched by the warmth of the sunlight. Judging by its position in the sky, Fheon assumed it was more or less late in the afternoon, perhaps only a few more hours until the sun went down.

Beneath her dragging feet, the stone pathway seemed to glow. The sound of rushing water entered her ears, and the thick undergrowth before them ultimately broke away, revealing two wooden pillars—an entrance.

The pathway continued onto a bridge, with a clear river running beneath it. To their left, there was a small waterfall.

The stone pathway continued, branching off in different directions, but the elves only pushed the Company forward. This particular Elven palace, it seemed, was found within a series of caverns. Pillars had been made to support the stone passages, but everything else seemed as though nature had made it for one purpose only, and that was to serve as something people could roam around easily.

Like in Rivendell, the paths did not have rails to keep anyone from falling off; this time, Fheon could not help but to look down. She had her head drooped in exhaustion. Her shoulder throbbed incessantly, most likely because of the unneeded amount of climbing she had done.

"You are in the Halls of King Thranduil," said the unnamed, golden-haired elf. "Speak ill of him, and you will be met by death."

Beside her, Fheon heard Gloin grumble to himself, but it was so incomprehensible that she was forced to assume he had spoken in Khuzdul—the name of their language, apparently.

Sunlight streamed into the cavern through the jagged cracks that lined the ceiling, but up and down the cavity, there were lit lanterns that provided the sufficient amount of light. Everything vaguely reminded her of the Goblin Tunnels in the Misty Mountains, enough for her chest to tighten in anxiety.

Eventually, the narrow pathways widened, and a throne room of sorts was revealed to the Company. Yet there was nothing that could separate this particular hall from everywhere else, except for the large chair in the middle of the room on which an elf with a large crown sat.

He had the same light tone of golden hair as the elf who had led their capture in the woods, the same grey eyes, and the same stormy expression. Fheon assumed that they were father and son, and that this was the esteemed King Thranduil. His crown looked to be made of small wooden branches, with small berries and ferns popping out here and there. His throne seemed to encircle his body, as if it was forged for him and him only—made of smooth wood that craned over his head, almost protectively.

Elven guards were lined up and down the hall. They had looked down at the dwarves once or twice already, and Fheon found it hard not to return their challenging gazes.

When she did raise her head, Thranduil was staring down at them with cold eyes. But it was only for a short while. Then he waved his hand and said something in Elvish, and by that time Fheon was starting to become frustrated at how she had not been taught the language, despite her status.

The elves that had captured them turned them around and started pushing them back down the pathway. They stopped when their king barked another order at them, and it offered Fheon little reprieve when she was able to discern the word "Oakenshield" in his statement.

One of the elves separated Thorin from the group, and then surprisingly did the same for Fheon and Elijah. The rest of the Company was led back down the stone halls, leaving them anxious and confused and glancing over their shoulders at their King Under the Mountain.


	16. Halls of Thranduil I

King Thranduil gestured for the Rangers to come closer, and they did. As Fheon passed by Thorin, she gave him a sideways glance and a very subtle warning look. Elijah did the same to her, and then Thranduil was speaking to them.

"I assume you do not understand the language of this realm?" he asked, with a smooth tone but with an underlying threat—just like his son.

Elijah shook his head slightly, not meeting the elf's eyes as he said, "We don't, King Thranduil."

Thranduil nodded once, and then gracefully stood up off his throne. He walked down the steps and to Thorin, looked down at him for a moment, and then strode past him to stand by the steps leading up to their platform.

He stayed there, gazing across the cavern as he spoke: "Some may imagine that a noble quest is at hand—a quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon." He then turned and looked at Thorin, who stood there, so much smaller than the elf and with his back to him. "I myself suspect a more prosaic motive… attempted burglary or something of that ilk."

Even then, as Thranduil bent down to intimidate him, Thorin kept a clear face and held his chin high.

"You have found a way in," said Thranduil. "You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule—the King's Jewel, the Arkenstone."

Thorin's cool exterior faltered, then, as if he was actually surprised the Elven king had found out so soon. Fheon kept her hard eyes on him and hoped he would, at least for a second, look at her and discern the warning in her gaze. All the while, Thranduil continued, this time with a cruel smile.

"It is precious to you beyond measure. I understand that. There are gems in the mountain that I too desire— _white_  gems of pure starlight. I offer you my help." The elf bowed his head slightly, almost  _humbly_ , and Fheon's eyes stayed on Thorin, ever more cautioning.

A small smile graced the Dwarf King's features, accompanied by a glint in his eye. Fheon was yet to discern whether he was showing the truth or if it was a ploy. "I am listening," he said.

"I will let you go," said Thranduil, "If you but return what is mine."

This time, Thorin was returned his pride, and he turned around, striding to where the elf had been standing but a few seconds ago. "A favor for a favor," he muttered.

"You have my word… one king to another."

Neither Fheon nor Elijah could see the two's king's faces, and because neither of the kings could see them either (unless they had eyes at the back of their heads, which Thorin did not), she glanced at her brother and allowed a hint of anxiety to slip into her usually blank expression. He merely pursed his lips in response.

"I would not trust Thranduil," Thorin suddenly spat, "the great king, to honor his word should the end of all days be upon us! You, who lack all honor!" The dwarf turned to face the elf, pounding his fist on his chest. "I have seen how you treat your friends. We came to you once—starving, homeless, seeking  _your_  help—but you turned your back! You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us."

He shouted something in Khuzdul, and then suddenly Thranduil was directly in front of him, so close to his face that Thorin could either have been surprised, disgusted, intimidated, or all three. Fheon was all three.

In her alarm, she took a single step forward, somewhat subconsciously as well. Elijah was there to pull her back.

"Do not talk to me of dragon fire," Thranduil hissed. "I know its wrath and ruin. I have faced the great serpents of the North." As he said this, he sounded as if he was in great pain."You think you are the only one who has seen such destruction, smelt the death that was caused by flame. But you have not felt the  _burn_ , the tongues of the fire lapping at your skin, like a dying man in the desert… yet there is one such other in this room that has felt such."

He took a quick step back, and then Fheon was able to see the doubt that had appeared on Thorin's face. Just then, Thranduil turned and threw her a very pointed look, making her skin crawl. When he finally turned around again, Thorin's gaze was still on her.

"I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen," said Thranduil, walking back up the steps to his throne. "You are just like him." He waved his hand and two Elven guards stepped off their pedestals and grabbed Thorin's arms. The dwarf struggled in vain, ultimately tearing his eyes off of Fheon. "Stay here if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I am patient. I can wait."

The guards practically dragged Thorin out of the hall, presumably to where they took the rest of the Company. Fheon understood that Thranduil was not going to kill them—at least, not yet. He was likely to have kept the dwarves somewhere, like a dungeon. There was still hope for their escape. But not in that moment, when Fheon and Elijah were standing below Thranduil's throne, heads bowed as they could feel his decisive eyes looking them up and down.

“Why do you, two Rangers of the North, leave your posts and offer help to the Heir of Durin?” he asked. “What business do you have with the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain?"

"We only accepted because we knew the payment would be large," Elijah replied softly. "Larger than just their gratefulness and respect."

"Surely Rangers do not need such large sums of gold."

For a moment, Elijah was quiet. Fheon dared not glance at him in fear of the Elven king start to suspect their lies, and she hoped that her brother was thinking and had not been stumped. "'Need' and 'want' are two very different things, my King," he finally said, and she allowed herself a silent, inward sigh.

It had been the best reply at such circumstances, it seemed. Thranduil did not push the subject, but stroked his jaw as he continued to look down at them. "Very well," he said. "But now, the dwarves will be staying in the dungeons for as long as they live. There will be no escape for them, and the dragon will remain in the mountain, along with the treasure there. You have no 'payment' now, so what shall you do?"

"Return to Eriador, I suppose," said Elijah. "Resume our places there as guardians of the Shire."

Thranduil thought for a moment. "I will let you leave," he concluded. "I have no grudges against the Men of the North—given, of course, that you do nothing to instigate my anger within the next ten hours."

Fheon's lips tilted down in a slight frown, and Elijah said, "Ten hours…?"

"There is to be a festivity tonight, the Feast of Starlight," the king explained nonchalantly. "I expect the both of you to be there—in return for my generosity, considering your circumstance."

"It would be our pleasure, King Thranduil," said Elijah, bowing his head. Fheon quickly followed suit. "Unfortunately, we do not have the proper clothes for such a grand event—"

"I will have the servants fetch something of your caliber." Thranduil, seeming to be in a rush, waved his hand. "Now go. The festivities will begin in a few short hours. Tomorrow morning, I will arrange for your leave."

Elijah and Fheon bowed again. "Many thanks, my King," said the brother, before both of them turned around and exited the hall. However, Fheon felt the king's eyes bore into the back of her head, sending an uncomfortable tingle down her spine. Determinedly, she started thinking of ways on how they were going to escape.

They did not even know where the dwarves were being held.

* * *

 

Fheon noticed that there were not many she-elves in the particular palace they were in. And so it came to pass that a male elf was the one who, surprisingly, led her and her brother back out of the stone doors and onto the stone path leading into the forest. But instead of choosing the route to Mirkwood, the elf walked them to the direction of the Elven kingdom itself.

The elves here, Fheon noticed, were garbed in less majestic fashion compared to the elves in Rivendell. She remembered Beorn stating that the Wood-Elves were much different from their kin, who lived under the protection of Lord Elrond. Now she could see why. From the way the beings here walked and spoke, the difference was obvious—but they were no less graceful.

The elf-guide led the Rangers up into one of the treehouses, where Elijah was separated from Fheon via another elf—this time, a woman.

"He will have separate quarters from you," said Fheon's guide, as she watched her brother be led into a treehouse.

Nodding, she followed the elf into a different treehouse, where he quickly set a bath for her. Thankfully, he did not stay for long, unlike the elven maid in Rivendell. He merely stated that he would have her clothes brought to the room shortly, and then left.

Unlike her previous one-night residence in Rivendell, Fheon did not stop to admire the edifice, despite how beautiful it may have been.

With a pleasing spicy scent lingering in her senses, she stripped, gingerly removing her shoulder brace, and undid her braid, combing through her sweaty tresses with her fingers. Using one of the towels the elf had laid out for her, she soaked it into the water and scrubbed herself clean, not even bothering to use the soap. She did not want to have the smell of elves on her, for she knew that Thorin would not be too happy about it.

Using the spray, she rinsed her hair, rubbing her fingernails across her scalp as she did so to eliminate the grime and blood that might have gotten there during their long journey. She cleaned the spider gore off her face and then dried herself with a second towel. When she exited from the lavatory, as expected, a dress had been laid out for her on the bed.

It had two layers on it, which was sure to offer her at least some kind of warmth against the biting cold night air. The under layer was dark fuchsia—almost burgundy—that was sewn to reach her elbow just before it flared out loosely. The over-gown was a lighter shade of pink than the under layer, antiqued with plantlike designs woven into the cloth.

There was a lace and trim overlay at the collar and elbows, but Fheon was unnerved to find the collar stretching across her chest and weaving back down just over her shoulder and onto the top of her back. It was sure to reveal the injury on her shoulder, which was yet to heal over time.

Frowning, she enfolded her chest with her chest wrapping and carefully returned the shoulder brace onto her body, anxious to know whether the dress would reveal it or not. Even if it did, she had no plans on leaving it off for the night. She slipped on her worn-out tunic and pants—in case they had to make a hasty escape—and finally wore the dress.

She had never worn a dress in her life, not even during her childhood, and it was given that the first time for everything was always uncomfortable. The lace at the collar was scratchy, irritating her bruise. It was to her slight relief that the shoulder brace was subtle enough not to be noticeable beneath the dress; a hem of a strap could be seen peeking out on her back, but not enough for it to catch much attention. However, as she’d expected, the bruising on her shoulder stuck out like a bear among a herd of cattle.

She moved the hem of her collar, tugging it so that it shielded her injury from view. It was sure to fall away eventually, though. Sighing inwardly, she began the arduous process of braiding her hair without the full support of her left shoulder.

To her astonishment, in the middle of her third repeat, there was a knock on her door, and then a beautiful she-elf came in, smiling graciously as she asked Fheon to adjust herself on the bed so she could help her.

Fheon, in no position to argue, did as she said and sat sideways on the foot-corner of the bed. The elf stood behind her, straightening her hair using an actual comb, and then started weaving her fingers through Fheon's hair. For a moment, Fheon was reminded of her mother's gentle touch whenever she was the one who brushed her hair.

She quickly shook the memory away, coming back to the present.

As the elf fixed her hair, she continued thinking of ways on how to free the Company from whatever dungeon they were being held in.

Minutes afterwards, the she-elf finished with Fheon's hair and placed a hand-mirror in front of her face. Fheon saw that the hair above her forehead had been braided skillfully and that it travelled downward, at which point, the elf tilted her head slightly so that Fheon was able to see the low, messy bun she had created, with the braid still in play. For a moment, she allowed herself to admire the elf's handiwork before thanking and dismissing her.

When the elf was gone, Fheon folded her cloak and over-shirt, and then looked down at them sadly. If she and her brother were indeed going to free the dwarves tonight, then there was no way she was going to get her cloak back—unless she returned to this particular room in the woods, which was highly improbable.

With pursed lips, she laced her boots onto her feet, ignoring the sandals the male-elf had left there for her. Luckily, her dress travelled down far enough so that no one would be able to see her feet.

She pulled the drapes back slightly and saw that the sun was setting. But there were still a few minutes left before the party began, surely, and so she hastily walked to Elijah's room and placed three firm knocks on the door.

When Elijah first opened the door, Fheon had barely recognized him, with his clear face and cropped, shaggy hair properly styled. He had been given a white under-shirt that travelled all the way down to below his knees, where it hung loosely above grey breeches and his usual black boots. He had a sleeveless, burgundy gambeson that showed off the under-shirt that flared at his arms, but had been designed to retreat back into buttons at the wrist.

He wore his forest-green Ranger cloak with ease, because it actually suited the outfit given to him. Fheon regarded it and his high collar with subtle envy.

Upon seeing her, the man's face lit up immediately. "Sister!" he exclaimed. "You look stunning! Who's the lucky groom?"

"Not you, thankfully," she grumbled, striding past him and into his room, where she closed the door for him. "Have you a plan yet? To free the others?"

He chuckled lightly. "Since when have our plans ever done anything to change the course of everything that's happened?"

She thought about it for a moment, said, "Never," and then sat herself on the foot of his bed. "But it would offer me at least some kind of relief to know that we have one—never mind if we end up not using it."

"The Company does go first, after all," he said. "Alright, fine. We stay at the party for a while, socialize, erase their suspicions of us. And then you'll excuse yourself to go to the little ladies' room, I keep the attention of Thranduil, and you look for where the dwarves are being kept."

"There's sure to be a key… We don't even know who could be holding them. It could be Thranduil himself, or his son—"

"Or not." He patted her back, making sure he did not jar her left shoulder. "We have to stay positive, yeah?"

"Easy for you to say. You get breeches and layers of shirts, while I get a dress I could easily trip over."

He smiled. "At least you look beautiful. You could become a distraction for the elves that are sure to be guarding the dungeons."

She scoffed. "I had no idea elves would become interested in a human."

Disapprovingly clicking his tongue at her, he said, "What did I just say?"

To which she allowed a roll of her eyes and an inward sigh, replying, "Stay positive."


	17. Halls of Thranduil II

Parties by Elven standards were much different to the few festivities Fheon had been able to experience in the taverns at Bree.

It was not noisy. The people were not wild. Drinks were not concocted by loud bartenders and served by sultry maids. The music that echoed all around the palace was not sung by those who had had enough to drink, but by elf-musicians who played on their flutes and harps and violins and basses. If she were to be honest, Fheon found everything quite boring.

But, it seemed many elves were enjoying themselves. They talked amongst themselves in their language, leaving the Rangers both thankful and irked that they could not understand any of what they said. Thranduil sat on his throne, above and away from everybody else, looking down at the party with cool eyes. His son was nowhere to be found. This unnerved Fheon; she knew there was a chance that he was where Thorin and the others were being kept. Surely he would join the festivities sooner or later, if the Feast of Starlight was as important as everyone gave it credit to be.

By that time, Elijah had already finished two glasses of the sparkling champagne, whereas Fheon was still holding onto her first. She had no plans of getting tipsy that night, if their plan was going to succeed. It was lucky that her brother had a stronger metabolism to alcoholic drinks than her.

Despite the fact that they had included “socializing” in their plan, neither of them were eager to do anything of the sort. They had sorted themselves away from the chattering crowds of elves, staying by one of the stone pillars and occasionally glancing at each other when they saw something considerably amusing—or irritating.

When Fheon felt her stomach grumble, she tried to recall when the last time she had eaten was. It had to be the morning before they entered Mirkwood, for they had entered the forest at noon. How had she not noticed her hunger sooner? She handed Elijah her glass of champagne and murmured that she was going to get some finger food.

He met her gaze, somewhat knowingly, and winked, before downing her champagne.

She reached the table at the edge of the platform and served herself to several of the parmesan toasts, all the while looking at Elijah in confusion, trying to make sense of his wink. Then she remembered their plan, that she would dismiss herself to search for the dwarves. Did her brother really think that she would wander off so soon? Would that not give Thranduil a cause to be suspicious?

She had overheard one of the elves, surprisingly speaking in common-tongue, say that midnight would be the conclusive end of the party. Yet barely three hours had gone by and midnight was yet to strike. Would Thranduil go looking for her if the festivity ended and she still had not returned?

Sighing inwardly and hoping for the best, she finished her fifth parmesan toast and entered the mob of elves. She waded through their bodies subtly but quickly, and when she broke through, she immediately rushed down the wooden staircase, gathering the bottom of her dress in her hands. She started thinking as logically as she could. If dungeons had been built within the palace, then they would not have been built where anyone could have easy access. Not at the top, or the middle—but at the bottom.

Fheon travelled down dozens of flights of stairs, keeping her footsteps light and dodging the guards that passed her by. She grew thankful of the color of her dress; it made it easier for her to be stealthy.

Eventually, she came upon a narrow ravine—narrow enough for someone to jump from one end of it to another, if he was careful. Fheon proceeded with caution, already having tied the long cloth of her dress together, so that she was free to crouch. The ravine was ragged and uneven, with pathways carved onto its walls, and sturdy iron doors leading into hollow cells. Torches lit the cavern. The familiar sound of rushing water reached her ears, but glancing down, Fheon discerned that there were no rivers near their position. There must have been a waterfall that fell and continued falling from a great height.

She regarded the structure of it all and knew that she had found the dungeons.

Somewhere to her left, there were people talking. A man and a woman. Fheon soon recognized the voice of Kili to be the man’s, but the woman’s was all but alien to her. Their mutters travelled softly down the ravine, echoing against the walls. Fheon discerned that Kili was speaking about a fire moon of some sort; she had never heard of such a thing.

She cursed under her breath, to herself and to Kili. Surely he understood the gravity of their situation. She was there to free them, speak to them of the plan and he was there conversing with an _elf_ about beings of the heavens. How was she supposed to speak to Thorin now?

And then she spotted him, sitting cross-legged in front of his cell doors, head leaning against the bars. His eyes were closed, giving the impression that he was asleep. Fheon deeply hoped that he was not.

When Kili’s woman spoke, Fheon hissed, “Thorin!”

His eyes snapped open, starting to wildly look about for who had called his name. Making sure that no one else was walking by, above or below, she waved her right hand over her head once, then twice, letting the wide sleeve ride in the air. That caught his attention.

The Dwarf King’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet; he looked like he was about to call out to her, opening his mouth, and she quickly shook her palms in front of her in a negating gesture. She put a finger over her lips, letting the message sink in before proceeding to mouth one word: _Wait._

He nodded subtly, eyeing a cell to his right that Fheon could only assume was Kili’s. The she-elf was still there then. Motioning at him to wait again, Fheon hastily turned back and started climbing up the steps once more. She planned to return to Elijah to tell him where the dwarves were being held, so that he could hopefully find the keys and she could stall for time as he did so.

Just as she was rushing down an empty hallway, turning a corner, she felt something slam into her.

She stumbled back but quickly regained her composure. With unwavering eyes, she scanned the hall before her and found nothing. She glanced down at her feet and found nothing as well. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a voice say, “Fheon.”

Her heartbeat sped up and she frowned. There was no one in the hall with her. Was she hallucinating? _Why_ was she hallucinating when _Elijah_ was the one who had had more to drink than her? And then the voice came again, but this time, saying, “Fheon, it’s Bilbo.”

“Bilbo…?” At the blink of an eye, the hobbit was standing before her, his face covered in grime but otherwise no worse for wear. She stepped back in surprise, nearly letting out a yelp but letting her throat close just in time. She stared at him with wide eyes. “How… How did you…?”

“I’ll explain everything to you later,” he said in a hushed tone. “I have the keys. Do you know where Thorin and the others are?”

She gestured over her shoulder and replied in the same softness as he. “Just past this corridor and down two flights.”

“Okay… Do you have a plan yet?”

“Sort of,” she answered a bit uncertainly. “Look, you free Thorin and the others. I and Elijah will meet you—”

“In the cellars,” he interrupted. “Bottom level.”

“Right. Good luck.”

They brushed past each other hurriedly. Fheon was still trying to figure out where he had come from, because she was definitely _not_ hallucinating. But glancing over her shoulder and seeing that the hobbit had disappeared again, her sanity was yet to be proven. In the meantime, she continued in her task to return to the upper levels of the palace and relay the updates of the escape to her brother.

She did not know whether it was coincidence or luck that got her out of the staircases without getting caught, but she deeply hoped it was luck, because even then, coincidence was too risky. She quickly untied the hems of her dress as she made it back to the Halls of Thranduil.

In her adrenaline, she practically leapt into the mass of elves, desperate to evade the eagle eye of Thranduil. After waiting a few seconds and pretending to be a part of the crowd, she walked out onto the clear space of the platform and immediately made for Elijah, who had not moved from his spot. He held a plate of the parmesan toasts in his hand and was eating out of it, resulting in several she-elves stealing disturbed glances at him.

Fheon first reached for one of the treats before taking her place beside her, resuming her casual stance. As she took a bite of the toast, she muttered, “Was I gone for too long?”

“Almost ten minutes,” he replied, smirking slightly. “That’s sure to have lost you credit from the men here.”

“There are no men here except for us.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “What do you think women would be up to in the lavatory for more than five minutes?”

The answer to this dawned on her slowly, and she hit his upper arm. “That’s disgusting.”

Her brother laughed once, and then spoke in a lower, more serious tone. His lips barely moved; to the rest of the world, it would look like they were sharing a secret. “What’s the news?”

“Bilbo’s here,” she murmured in return. “He has the keys. I told him to free the others. They’ll meet us at the cellars.”

“When?”

“He didn’t say.”

Elijah glanced around with pursed lips, his eyes lingering on Thranduil atop his throne for a few seconds longer, and then looked to Fheon. “Should we go now?” he said.

“As soon as possible.”

She nodded, and he repeated the motion. “Now, then.”

Making sure not to look too suspicious, they dispersed from their positions by the pillar and walked to two different directions, but both of them disappearing within the crowd. Fheon ducked her head, using the same strategy as before, and easily began climbing down the staircase. In a hallway beneath the platform where the party was happening, she met with Elijah and then she proceeded to lead the way back down to the lower levels of the palace.

If it had been difficult to stay out of sight for Fheon the first time around, it became even more so with her brother with her. He was taller and wider than her, with a brighter over-shirt. And so he wrapped his evergreen cloak around his torso, hoping it would better keep him to the shadows. Fheon did not have such a luxury.

Both of them crouched low, they passed the level of the dungeons and travelled even deeper into the cave system; the deeper they went, the less guards they had to hide from. It made sense, if Fheon thought about it. Thranduil would want more sentinels watching the places closer to his Halls, where a party was going on.

The cellars smelled strongly of fruits and alcohol. Fheon soon caught sight of the Company of dwarves. Bilbo stood at the head. She heard a soft chuckle escape from her brother as they rushed to catch up to the dwarves. They were careful to keep their steps light, seeing that there were three elves dozing off in the corner. By the way they often gasped and muttered to themselves, they must have been in a very fitful sleep.

Using this as an advantage, she and Elijah surged forward to meet up with the Company—all of them, for the first time since their separation.

The dwarves celebrated (quietly) at the sight of them, and then Bofur frowned at Fheon, saying, “What on earth are you wearing, lass?” She glanced down at her dress in disgust and dismissed his question with a wave of her hand.

“You’re…” Ori trailed off with a look of awe on his childish face.

Fheon frowned at him and opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off when Thorin breathed, “Beautiful.”

Slightly taken aback, Fheon regarded him and Ori for a moment—the King’s intense gaze and the young dwarf’s wide eyes—before sighing. “Thank you.” When she finally let her eyes roam, she found that nearly every one of the Company was staring at her, seemingly at a new light.

She stared at each of them and let her dull demeanor return. Elijah cut in, thankfully, “Climb into the barrels—quickly!”

“Are you mad?” Dwalin growled, stepping up so that they were face-to-face, albeit him being much shorter than Elijah. “They’ll find us.”

Elijah met his steely eyes with his urgent ones. “They won’t.”

“He’s right,” Bilbo hurriedly agreed. “They won’t, they won’t. I _promise_ you. Please, _please_ , you _must_ trust me.” Dwalin only turned back around and started conversing with the dwarves.

In disbelief, Fheon threw Thorin an exasperated glance. He looked at her for only a second before telling his kin, “Do as he says.” Fheon nodded at him in approval and in gratitude, watching as the dwarves pushed each other into their own separate barrels. And to her surprise, Elijah did the same for her, albeit more gently. She stared at him with a frown before starting to push out of the barrel.

“No, no, no,” he said, easing her back in. “You’re injured, and you’re in a dress. You have the right to have a barrel—”

“I wore pants, _and_ my tunic, _and_ boots,” she hissed. “Where the bloody hell is _your_ barrel, by the way?”

“I’m going swimming.”

He gave her a little smirk, just as Bofur poked his head out of his barrel and asked Bilbo, “What now?”

To which the hobbit walked over to a large lever at the other side of the room and said, “Hold your breath.”

Fheon had just enough time to throw her brother a confused look before the floor beneath her barrel shifted. It tilted sideways and she felt her barrel shake slightly as the barrels above her started slipping off, and then she was rolling as well. Grabbing onto the side of her barrel, she did as Bilbo said and held her breath, clenching her stomach in preparation.

The sounds of wet splashes and groaning dwarves registered in her ears before iciness struck her to the bone, and she was submerged in water.

Her barrel took much too long to float back up, but when it did, Fheon straightened up and gasped sharply. As a result, it felt like her lungs had frosted over. Teeth clattering together, she raised her head at the sound of wood creaking and saw Elijah fall out of the opening, with Bilbo in his arms. They fell into the water and emerged, gasping for air as Fheon had been.

Nori pulled Bilbo towards his barrel and let him latch onto the mouth, while Fheon did the same for Elijah. “ _That’s_ cold,” he exclaimed, breathless. She rolled her eyes and unclasped his cloak for him, dropping it into her barrel to relieve him of the weight.

“Well done, Master Baggins,” said Thorin, the satisfaction obvious in his voice. Bilbo replied with a lame grunt and a wave of his hand, and then they were travelling down the gently rushing river, with Thorin at the head.

With her acute senses, Fheon was able to discern the Elvish language being barked to and fro from afar.

Ultimately, the narrow channel they were travelling down came to an end, and the gulley opened up to reveal the moonlit night outside. “HOLD ON!” Thorin bellowed.

Fheon groaned in irritation and then the steady pushing of the water beneath her barrel disappeared, followed by the short waterfall pushing her deep into the water. When she emerged once more, her fingers had turned numb over the mouth of her barrel. She struggled to grab Elijah’s wrist and pull him back to her. Meanwhile, the members of the Company were having trouble remaining safely within the confines of the current. Bifur very nearly hit his head against a boulder jutting out of the water.

They fell from another short waterfall.

Far behind them, an unfamiliar horn sounded, piercing through the air. Ahead of them, a portcullis had come into view—their only escape. Several guards were lined up and down the small bridge way above the gate, and they were sure to have seen the dwarves coming at them by then. Fheon tried to see whether any of them had a bow. This held little meaning, however, for one of them had run up to the large lever atop the portcullis and pulled it down.

The metal gates closed, and Thorin was the first to reach it. He released a cry of fury, banging against the grating, though it did not budge. The dwarves behind him followed him into the hollow crescent beneath the bridge, but Fheon and Elijah were far enough to not have reached inside with them.

Elijah started pulling himself out of the water via a stone foothold at the side. Fheon knew what he was about to do, and agreed silently that there was nothing else _to_ do. They had to escape, or else Thranduil was sure to kill them. But before either Elijah or the guards atop the gate could do anything, a black arrowhead sprouted from one of the guards’ chests.

As he fell to the ground, an orc ran up from behind him and released a feral shriek.

“ORCS!” Fheon announced.

More of the monstrosities appeared, killing all the guards atop the portcullis in less than ten seconds. Thinking quickly, Fheon reached forward and grabbed one of the fallen elves, pushing him to Elijah as she grabbed another one for herself.

Manoeuvring the elf so that his hip would rise out of the water, she pulled his sword out of the sheath. She heard Elijah do the same, and did not hesitate in the slightest when she ran her newly-acquired sword down the front of her dress, effectively ripping it in half. She pulled it apart and was left in pants and a tunic. It was better to fight in than in a dress.

An orc suddenly jumped into the river right in front of her. It drove its sword supposedly into her head, but she dodged it just in time—falling backward and therefore pushing her barrel backward.

Submerged in the water, she stabbed the orc in the gut and then freed herself from her barrel. A hand appeared in front of her face, a human hand, and she took it, grunting as Elijah pulled her onto dry land.

An orc sprung out from behind him and she quickly cut off its head in one stroke. Elijah jumped across the river and onto the rocks across, where he unsheathed a sword from a fallen elf and threw it to Dwalin, who was beating an orc with his bare fists. Fheon grabbed the axe of the orc she had killed and tossed it to Gloin.

Meanwhile, Kili had heaved himself out of the river as well and was dealing with an orc. He had no weapons. Fheon surged forward and drove her sword through the orc’s neck. It fell to the ground as Kili stared at her in surprise. Then, Dwalin hollered his name and tossed his sword to Kili.

Fheon was able to register a growling sound from behind her right before Kili told her to duck. She did, he swung his sword, and an orc head fell into the river.

Grunting in thanks, Fheon whirled around to deal with the orcs that were heading their way. And by unspoken consent, Kili slowly made his way towards the lever that would open the portcullis. Across the river, Elijah was battling with a monstrously large orc. An orc foolishly chose Fheon as an enemy; she swiped her leg at the feet of an orc and stabbed it in the heart when it fell to the ground.

As she beheaded another one of the orcs, she heard a strangled gasp come from her left, followed by a dwarf calling out Kili’s name.

She whirled around and found Kili lying on the stone floor of the bridge way, a large black arrow embedded in his leg with an orc looming over him. It was then she wished more than anything that she still had her bow.

But then an arrow was whizzing through the air. It struck the orc dead. Fheon felt a heavy hand rest on her shoulder and instinctively ducked. She heard the sound of a woman’s grunting before an orc fell dead to her left. Fheon turned and stabbed at an orc, ignoring the she-elf that was with her; it was the same she-elf they had encountered in Mirkwood.

“ELIJAH, THE LEVER!” Fheon shouted, blocking the club of an orc with her sword hand and then head-butting it. While the creature was dazed, she cut off its head, and then met the unnamed she-elf’s eyes.

“Duck,” said Fheon, and as soon as she did she killed the orc that was about to bash the elf’s head in with a club.

The sound of the portcullis opening reached her ears. Not waiting for the elf’s thanks, Fheon turned and jumped over the stone bridge-way. She noticed Kili no longer on the path and assumed that he had returned to his barrel. Elijah repeated her movements, and from opposite sides of the gorge, they followed the dwarves downstream.

Fheon saw that Bilbo was still hanging on tightly to Nori’s barrel. But when the orcs started shooting at them, narrowly missing the dwarves and instead hitting the barrels, she knew that it would not be long before an arrow found its way into his heart, or his arm, or his stomach.

She opened her mouth to yell at the hobbit to take refuge in her barrel. Her words caught in her throat when several orcs appeared from behind the trees, attacking her, distracting her immensely.

Bilbo would have to figure it out on his own. And the rushing water was going to have to shield him for a while longer.

Fheon surged forward and killed an orc that was about to club Bombur to death. She let it fall into the water as another orc came lumbering in with a mace. She ran towards it and slid between its legs before cutting of its head.

Movement, by the front of the Company but too far from her, caught her attention.

“Thorin, orc!” she managed to say during her skirmish with an orc that had a sword.

But arrows were sprouting from the orcs ahead of her, even from across the gorge. Elven arrows. She knew they were fast, but they exceeded her expectations now. She killed two more orcs that had been planning to attack one of the dwarves, beheading both of them as she spun. Across the gorge, she heard Elijah call her name and stopped to look at him.

It was the right thing to do, it seemed, for suddenly a barrel erupted out of the river and was rolling down the steep riverside, flattening orcs as it went. Fheon saw a round ginger head protruding from the mouth. She killed the orcs Bombur had knocked down. Somehow, he had managed to get across the river and to the other side, where he continued to knock orcs down.

She looked to see if her brother was alright, and in that moment, an arrow whizzed past her shoulder to kill an orc with a mace. But it had already swung, though Fheon was quick to duck and kick it into the river. She snapped her head up to find the son of Thranduil standing atop the heads of Dwalin and Ori, balancing there as he shot down orcs. Fheon decided to leave him be, and to continue with her job.

But then said elf was suddenly ahead of her, killing all of the orcs she was supposed to kill. Still running forward, she watched from the corner of her eye as he hopped from one dwarf head to another and then ultimately landed across the river, in front of Elijah. Elijah paid him no heed and surged forward, keeping Fheon in his sights.

Behind her, the throaty sounds of orcs followed them, but there were no more ahead of her. As she continued running forward, she registered that the sounds of combat had died off as well. None of the elves were following them anymore, which was both good and bad.

She noticed that the orcs did not run very fast—that, or they had given up the chase altogether. She glanced over her shoulder and found they had become mere black specks in the distance. As soon as they were completely out of sight, she cast the Elven sword aside, not even thinking twice about it, and then softly called for Dori to pull her barrel closer to her.

Elijah merely jumped into his barrel, but Dori did as Fheon ordered. Fheon pulled it as close as it could possibly get and gingerly set herself down into it. Her feet pressed on something soft and spongy, and she leant down to pull her torn dress out of the bottom of the barrel. Without a second thought, she threw it over her shoulder and let it ride the river with them

Then, she picked Elijah’s cloak off the bottom of her barrel and handed it to him. It was a miracle it had not been carried away by the current.


	18. To Esgaroth

The river carried them onward through the night. At times, Fheon was able to fall asleep in her exhaustion, but the rapids ramming her barrel against a boulder always woke her, if it was not the cold early morning air or her rumbling stomach. Elijah offered her his cloak very soon in the journey, knowing that he had left hers in the Realm of the Wood Elves. Though it was sopping wet, she was grateful for the extra cover.

For hours on end, they followed the current. Sometime at dawn, Ori was able to tug a tree root from out of the ground. Thorin used this to paddle, for at that time, the current had become weaker and they were travelling much slower than they had hoped.

Even when the sun rose, it was not for another four hours before they lost the current completely.

Thorin spotted a small strip of land ahead of them and called over his shoulder, “Anything behind us?”

“Not that I can see,” Balin replied, for it so happened that their positions had gotten switched up overnight; he was now at the very rear, with Gloin, Dori, Nori, and Bombur. Fheon and Elijah had found themselves floating in the middle of the Company.

To Fheon’s right, Bofur popped out from within his barrel, spewing out water from his mouth. He glanced behind them, as if just finding out that the orcs were far behind, and said, “I think we’ve outrun the orcs!”

“Not for long,” said Thorin. “We’ve lost the current.”

“Bombur’s half-drowned,” Dwalin exclaimed.

“Make for the shore!”

“Aye,” the Company replied.

Elijah leaned forward in his barrel and started paddling towards the shore using his hands. Fheon followed suit, albeit propelling herself much slower than he, for she only used one arm.

The light current of the river aided her in reaching the shore, where her brother helped her out of the barrel. Water continued to stream out of her soaked clothes and her boots, making her feel as bare as the day she was born; her tunic clung to her abdomen. She wrapped Elijah’s cloak tighter around herself, scrambling out of the water and onto the small, stony islet. As she set herself down on the ground, she felt something scrape against her thigh. She dug her hand into her pocket and pulled out three dripping wet pouches.

Her stomach clenched. She looked into one pouch and found that the parsley and rosemary had been reduced to soggy, brown leaves. It would do nothing for her breath now. She threw them into the river and then looked into another pouch, where the coneflower had practically turned into mush after being inside water for so long.

She no longer had her canteen, and the herbs would prove useless after a given time.

Scrunching her nose, she poured the remainder of the wet coneflower into her palm and flicked her tongue out to lick some of it; not being mixed in water, the flavor was even stronger. Yet its effects on her metabolism were sure to have remained. So, mentally preparing herself, she threw her head back and swallowed the coneflower slush in one gulp.

The strong, bittersweet taste of it erupted at the back of her throat and she quickly retreated into her mind, thinking of calming, faraway thoughts.

Meanwhile, Kili had fallen to his knees somewhere to her left. Elijah and Bofur rushed to him immediately, the latter tearing a small part of his shirt and handing it to the injured dwarf. Kili pressed the cloth against the gaping hole in his leg, trying to halt the bleeding. He hissed in pain but then followed with, “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“On your feet,” Thorin snapped.

“Kili’s wounded,” Fili explained, taking his place beside his brother and Elijah. “His leg needs binding.”

“There’s an orc pack on our tail. We keep moving.”

“To where?” asked Balin.

“To the mountain,” said Bilbo. “We’re so close.”

Fheon opened up the final pouch and looked into it, washing her mouth with some water from the river (which she spit out eventually). The lemon balm had been reduced into little more than powder mixed with water, which was how it was supposed to be applied.

Thinking better of just throwing it away, Fheon stuck some of the mixture onto her three fingers and, readjusting her brace, dabbed it onto her purple bruise. Immediately, the relieving effects of the herbs eased onto her skin. Then, seeing Kili in pain, she walked over to him and handed Bofur the pouch.

“It’s lemon balm,” she said. “Just dab it around his wound. It might help with the pain.”

“Lemon balm,” Bofur murmured, somewhat to himself. “Of course, of course! Thank you, Fheon.”

“No problem.”

Balin was humming thoughtfully. “A lake lies between us and that mountain,” he said. “We have no way to cross it.”

“So then we go around,” said Bilbo.

“The orcs will run us down, as sure as daylight,” said Dwalin. “We’ve no weapons to defend ourselves. If it hadn’t been for our scouts and those damned elves, we’d be dead.”

Elijah scooted closer to Fheon and muttered into her ear, “No thanks required, right?”

“Right,” she quietly, and half-heartedly, replied.

Thorin passed by them and looked down at Kili; behind his firm expression, Fheon was able to discern the growing anxiety within him. “Bind his leg, quickly. You have two minutes.”

Sighing inwardly, Fheon moved to sit by the edge of the islet, on the shore, where she took off her boots and spilled the water out of them. Ori watched her before sitting down to do the same.

She regarded him for a moment, and through her fatigue, reminded herself exactly why her brother had wanted them to join such a quest in the first place: help a Free People reclaim their homeland, so that their families could live in peace. So far, their journey had been nothing but smooth-sailing—or, at least, smooth-sailing considering their circumstances. Fheon could not help but to wonder when things would go wrong, because eventually, things always went wrong, no matter how prepared they might be.

Just as she thought this, her ears perked up at the sound of a bow being drawn. She turned her head and found the wide form of Dwalin blocking her view, with Thorin’s large tree root in his hands.

Warily, she tilted her head to the side to find a man standing in their midst, armed with a longbow and a quiver of arrows. A jolt went through her when she realized that he was a human.

Dwalin raised the tree root and was about to swing, but then just as fast as Fheon or Elijah could have done—or, perhaps a bit slower—the stranger released an arrow that hit the stick, right between Dwalin’s hands. Kili grabbed a rock off the ground, but then the man turned halfway to his right and shot it right out of the dwarf’s hand.

He nocked a third arrow and said, “Do it again and you’re dead.”

Elijah was on his feet, as well as Fheon, and they eyed him with attentiveness. It had been a while since they had seen a being other than dwarves or wizards or elves that seeing one single man brought them great interest. Fheon noticed that Elijah was fascinated with the man as well as his bow, no doubt missing his own very much.

“Excuse me, but, um…” Balin started, taking a few steps forward before the stranger pointed his arrow at him, to which he raised both his hands in a sign of innocence. “You’re from Lake-town, if I’m not mistaken. That barge over there”—he pointed to a small vessel that Fheon, to her dismay, had only just noticed—“it wouldn’t be available for hire, by any chance?”

Hearing this, the stranger lowered his bow, and after a few more moments, returned his arrow to his the quiver on his back. The Company relaxed slightly. The man regarded them for a long while, his eyes lingering on Fheon longer than necessary. She returned his gaze blankly, easing the nonchalant expression back onto her face and straightening her back.

The man turned and made way for the barge that he had tied to place at the dock on the other end of the islet. As he went, he waded into the water to retrieve two of the barrels floating there. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded at the dwarves.

Wordlessly, they helped him carry the load. At Elijah’s request, Fheon hung back and watched him carry her and his barrels in each of his hands. They trailed after the unnamed man to his barge and followed suit in setting down the barrels on the stone dock.

“What makes you think I would help you?” said the stranger, moving the barrels from the dock to his barge one by one.

“Those boots have seen better days,” said Balin, “As has that coat. No doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed. How many bairns?”

The man looked at Balin for a moment with furrowed eyebrows before saying, “A boy and two girls.” And seeing as he had been humoring Balin for such a considerable amount of time, Fheon decided that they should let the old dwarf do the talking.

“And your wife, I imagine she’s a beauty,” said Balin.

“Aye, she was.”

“… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, come on, come on,” Dwalin suddenly exclaimed. “Enough of the niceties.” Fheon turned to look at him, as did the others, in slight vexation.

“What’s your hurry?” asked the bargeman.

“What’s it to you?”

“I would like to know who you are and what you are doing in these lands.”

Balin shrugged one shoulder. “We are simple merchants from the Blue Mountains,” he said, “journeying to see our kin in the Iron Hills.”

“Simple merchants, you say?” Again, the man’s gaze turned to look at Fheon, and then at Elijah. “I know they are not from Lake-town, yet where else could they have come from? Surely they did not come from the Blue Mountains as well? Nor are they your kin.”

“We were hired by a friend to protect these dwarves during their journey,” Elijah half-lied. “Some of these dwarves have old bones, you see, and it does not help that the wilderness is a dangerous place.”

The stranger’s eyes flickered to Fheon’s dripping clothes, but not to her cloak. If she had to guess, he still had not been able to discern that she and Elijah were of the Dunedain. Subtly, she brought her hands up to cover the six-pointed cloak-clasp, pretending to pull the cloak tighter around her. His gaze wandered.

Thorin stepped up. “It does not help that we are empty-handed either, bargeman,” he said. “We need food, supplies, weapons. Can you help us?”

The stranger lowered his head and started fingering the splinters jutting out from the wood of the barrels. “I know where these barrels came from,” he mused seriously.

“What of it?” said Thorin.

“I don’t know what business you had with the elves, but I don’t think it ended well. No one enters Lake-town but by leave of the Master. All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland Realm. He would see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduil.” He threw the docking ropes to Balin, who did not catch it.

To her right, she heard Thorin say, “Offer him more,” and turned her head to find him and Balin sharing exasperated looks.

Seeing the expectant expression on her brother’s face, Fheon spoke up, “I’ll wager there are ways to enter that town unseen.”

By that time, the stranger had finished loading all the barrels onto his barge. He had just retrieved his bow and arrows and turned to venture on, when he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Aye,” he said. “But for that, you would need a smuggler.”

Unfazed, she added, “For which we would pay. Double.”

The bargeman halted altogether and turned around, surprise crossing his face before he scrunched his eyebrows together in seriousness. He regarded her with a calm expression, and then Elijah, and then the Company. “Double?” he said. “Fifty silver pieces, then.”

Balin rushed onto the barge and shook his hand. “It’s a deal.”

By unspoken consent, the dwarves got onto the boat one by one. Bilbo trailed behind, with Fheon and Elijah at the very back. When Elijah passed by the bargeman, he smiled brightly and patted his shoulder. When Fheon passed by him, however, she only met his gaze for a short moment before proceeding to the transom of the barge, where they took their seats on the single thwart there. The dwarves would not have minded; they were too busy silently conversing amongst themselves at the foredeck of the boat. Oin, Gloin, and Ori had taken to sitting cross-legged on the floor, no doubt less wary than their kin.

As the bargeman gave a hard push to free the boat from the dock and take his place by the tiller behind them, Fheon was able to discern that the dwarves were discussing whether or not they should trust the stranger.

She could understand their suspicion, but their meeting on the islet had been explanation enough that the bargeman was as wary of them as they were of him. He had set the conditions of payment himself, which meant that he had not been hired by any of their enemies. Else, if he had been hired and he was looking for money from both his employer and the dwarves, then Fheon was to be the fool. But he did not look like someone who was greedy.

He had asked for fifty silver pieces, and that was not much to begin with, considering he was smuggling a band of dwarves. Perhaps he just wanted to provide for his three children.

Perhaps.

* * *

 

The boat did not travel fast, and so it took them several long hours. At some point, Bilbo wandered away from the foredeck and came to sit by Fheon. Elijah had taken to standing up, looking across the lake with admiring eyes.

The Company aboard the boat had lapsed into a comfortable silence, with short chats erupting now and again, here and there—even with Bilbo and the Rangers. But they were careful not to let slip of anything with mentions to their quest, who they were, or where they came from. This resulted in non-logical discussions, which Fheon did not mind at all. She let her brother do most of the speaking, and closed her eyes to fall into a half-sleep.

She heard the exchange of Elijah and Bilbo, making sure to take in every word. When there was a lapse in their light-hearted conversation, Bilbo inquired the bargeman what his name was, bringing a small smile onto Fheon’s face.

The man said that his name was Bard, though that was all he said. And when Bilbo asked the names of his children, he answered with _only_ their names—“Tilda, Bain, and Sigrid.” Fheon swiped at Bilbo’s knee and shook her head slightly. He stopped asking questions. A few minutes afterwards, he stood back up and returned to the foredeck with the dwarves.

Fheon remained in  her half-sleep for a few more hours, occasionally drifting deeper into her consciousness and dreaming—which had not happened for quite some time. But then coldness settled over her, not unnaturally. When she opened her eyes, a heavy fog had appeared over the lake. She could not see past four feet of the barge. Glancing down, she saw that her breaths could be seen rolling off her lips in wisps of mist.

“Watch out!” she heard Bofur yell, and raised her eyes to find a large pillar of stone in front of them. They were heading straight for it.

Then, at the last second, Bard manoeuvred them away from the column, seeming to glide past everything else that stood in their way. Fheon discerned that they were wading through what seemed to be the remains of a large monument, perhaps what was once a bridge or a gateway—little more than ruins, now.

“What are you trying to do, drown us?” said Thorin, glaring at the bargeman.

“I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf,” Bard retorted sternly. “If I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here.”

He turned the tiller again, and Thorin retreated back to the small mass of dwarves that had taken their seats on the crates they could find on board. Fheon eyed them as Dwalin muttered something gruffly to the others, almost angrily, but none of them made any move.

She glanced over her shoulder to look at Bard for a short moment, and then looked away when Thorin softly called her over. Dutifully, she walked to him and, reading his expectant stare, took a step closer and bent her head close.

He spoke in a hushed tone that tickled her nose, saying, “What do you think of this… bargeman? I saw you speaking with him a while back. Can we trust him?”

After a moment of thought, Fheon replied, equally quiet, “I believe so, yes. As long as he gets his pay, I do not think he will betray us.” The Dwarf King nodded, and she added in a soft tone, “And his name is Bard.”

To which Dwalin grunted. “We know what his name is,” he practically snarled. “I don’t care what he calls himself. I don’t like him.”

“We do not have to like him,” said Balin. “We simply have to pay him. Come on now, lads. Turn out your pockets.”

As the dwarves did as was asked, Fheon was able to hear Dwalin mutter, “How do we know he won’t betray us?” And surprisingly, Thorin looked to Fheon, as if she knew better, as if he trusted her enough to say the right thing. But she said nothing, and neither did he.

When the time came for Balin to ask her for her share in the fee, she turned out both of her half-dry pockets and showed that they were completely empty. Elijah was sure to have nothing as well, for his clothes had come from the Wood Elves, and they would not have left a single coin within its compartments.

Balin ended up laying down eight coin stacks of five.“We’re ten coins short,” he said.

Thorin moved away from Fheon—and it was only then that she realized just exactly how close they were standing—to cross his arms and say, “Gloin.” The authoritarian tone had returned to his voice so easily. “Come on, give us what you have.”

The red-haired dwarf swiftly raised his head and looked at Thorin with questioning eyes. “Don’t look to me,” he protested. “I have been bled dry by this venture. What have I seen for my investment? Naught but misery and grief and…”

Here, he trailed off from his half-hearted lying, finally noticing that all of the Company had gotten to their feet and was staring at something to their left, very high up. Fheon turned as well and raised her head, and was left breathless in wonder.

Past the fog, she was able to make out the silhouette of what apparently was Erebor. She was not able to see much of its glory, but the shadow of it was enough.

Throat convulsing, she managed to say, “We’re so close.”

“Aye,” Thorin replied; his voice barely a whisper. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes and might have seen a glimmer of a tear behind the crinkles at the sides of his eyes; he was smiling very, very faintly.

“Bless my beard,” said Gloin, before proceeding to dig into his coat pockets and taking out a pouch full of coins. “Take it. Take all of it.”

Balin took it, chuckling lightly, and then poured the rest of the coins into the same pouch.

As the dwarves slowly receded to return to sitting on the floor, Thorin tore his gaze away from the Mountain and said to Fheon, “How is your shoulder?”

“In the mend,” she quietly answered. “Without Beorn’s medicines, I fear it will take longer to heal than finishing this quest.”

“You are a fine warrior with a sword.”

“But a bow would be helpful if we are to remain furtive in Esgaroth. If anyone was to approach us and we were in hiding, a sword would not help me kill him silently.” She noticed that he was looking at her oddly, and hastily shook her head. “Sorry. Protecting you dwarves has taken quite a toll on me and my brother. It seems that with each passing capture, it becomes harder for us to keep you alive.”

The corner of his lips tilted up in a subtle smile. “Should I apologize?” he said, making her chuckle lightly.

“No. But it would help for you to be more careful.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped himself when Bilbo suddenly cleared his throat and rolled his eyes to the right, where Bard had left his position by the tiller and was rushing towards them.

Bard held out his hand. “The money, quick, give it to me.”

“We will pay you when we get our provisions, but not before,” said Thorin.

“If you value your freedom, you’ll do as I say,” Bard retorted. His eyes veered ahead of them. “There are guards ahead.”

And indeed, only several meters ahead of them, Fheon was able to make out the silhouette of a dock amidst a sea of wooden splinters jutting out of the lake. She nodded to Thorin, and he told Balin to give the bargeman the money.

“Get into the barrels, now,” said Bard, hurriedly taking the coins from the dwarf and returning to the tiller. “You, hide beneath that blanket. Make sure it covers all of you.”

He pointed to Elijah and to a wide square of cloth that was on the floor. It looked to be wet too, but Elijah did as he was told. The docks were coming completely into view now. Seeing nothing else to do, she was the first to slip into a barrel. A mere second later, she heard the dwarves start to do the same.

She felt the boat hit something, and then it stilled. “Stay quiet,” murmured Bard. “I’ll be back.”

Fheon shifted uneasily inside the barrel, trying to find a position that suited her and did not offer discomfort to her shoulder. It seemed that there was none, and she ultimately had to stop because she was fairly sure that her barrel had almost fallen over once or twice. Someone was bound to notice if a third time came around.

She gritted her teeth and breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. An ache started at the juncture where her shoulder met her neck, and soon it started throbbing.

A minute in, she heard Dwalin whisper in his gruff voice, “What’s he doing?”

“He’s talking to someone,” came Bilbo’s soft reply, followed by, “He’s pointing right at us,” followed by, “Now they’re shaking hands!”

“What?” Thorin growled.

“The villain,” another dwarf said.

“He’s selling us out!” said another.

“Hush, men,” Elijah finally said. “He’s coming back.”

The barrel beside Fheon moved slightly. “ _You can see_?”

“Quiet!”

A metal creaking sound pierced through the sudden silence, and then footsteps. An itch came to existence on the back of Fheon’s head, and she had to resist the urge to bring her hand up to scratch it. When the creaking sound came to its peak and the footsteps stopped, she held her breath.

Something heavy, slimy and wet dropped onto her head. As it slipped past her nose and she came to realize that it was a fish, four more fell on her; and then a dozen, and then three dozen, five dozen. In less than a minute, she was completely buried in them.

She shifted within the pile of fish, tucked her arms and legs into her chest, and bowed so that her forehead rested between her knees. Unconsciously, she started shaking. She felt the barge start moving again, and wanted to start breathing again, but could only get a thin amount of air through her nostrils—freezing air, at that.

Her quaking did not stop for a single moment. Around her, she was able to register the unhappy grunting of the dwarves. A loud thud was able to reach her ears, through the layers of fish, and Bard whispered, “Quiet. We’re approaching the tollgate.”

Minutes afterward, Fheon heard an unfamiliar man’s voice: “Halt! Good’s inspection! Paper’s please! Oh… it’s you, Bard!”

“Morning, Percy,” replied their bargeman.

Fheon tried her best to stop shaking. Both her arms had gone numb from the cold.

“Anything to declare?” said Percy.

“Nothing, but that I am cold and tired, and ready for home,” said Bard.

“You and me both… There we are, all in order.”

Then another unfamiliar voice came, saying, “Not so fast.” He made sure to pause after each word, giving Fheon the assumption that he was not to be a friend of theirs. “‘Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm.’ Only, they’re not empty, are they, Bard?” A second pair of feet boarded the vessel, the footsteps making the wooden floorboards tremble. “If I recall correctly, you’re licensed as a bargeman, not a fisherman.”

“That’s none of your business,” said Bard.

“Wrong. It’s the _Master’s_ business, which makes it _my_ business.”

Fheon cursed under her breath. Her body remained in its numb and trembling state.

“Oh, come on, Alfrid, have a heart. People need to eat!”

“These fish are illegal.” There was a loud splash. “Empty the barrels over the side.”

“You heard him,” said a fourth voice, “In the canal.” More footsteps resonated through the wooden floors of the barge, encircling Fheon and the Company.

“Folk in this town are struggling,” Bard continued to reason. “Times are hard. Food is scarce.”

“That’s not my problem.”

She clenched her stomach and prepared for a fight when she heard more than one barrel being rolled, followed by the flapping sound of fish being dumped into the water. It was just her luck that she had entered a barrel in the middle of all the others, which might buy her more time.

“And when the people hear the Master is dumping fish back in the lake, when the rioting starts—will it be your problem then?”

She could have sworn she heard a single grunt of the dwarves, or it might have been the men handling the barrels. In her position, it was impossible to know for sure.

A few more seconds of dumping fish and holding her breath, and the man named Alfrid finally said, “Stop.”

The splashing ceased. Fheon felt the floor quake slightly as the barrels were straightened up once more.

“Ever the people’s champion, eh, Bard? Protector of the common folk.” One by one, the half a dozen pair of feet receded until there was nothing more to be heard but the antagonistic voice of the Master’s assistant. “You might have their favor now, bargeman, but it won’t last.”

Then came the voice of Percy. “Raise the gate!”

A sound of metal chains and creaking iron echoed around them, similar to the sound of the portcullis opening and closing back in the Woodland Realm. For a moment, Fheon felt as if she had returned to that time, but she had not been inside a barrel filled with fish and slowly freezing to death, then.

“The Master has his eye on you,” Alfrid threatened, somewhat hurriedly. “You’d do well to remember: We know where you live.”

“It’s a small town, Alfrid. Everyone knows where everyone lives,” Bard easily retorted. And then the tiller was paddling through the water again, the hull riding the still waves effortlessly. After almost a minute of pure silence, the bargeman finally said, “Welcome to Lake-town.”


	19. Esgaroth I

Fheon thought that sitting in a barrel filled with ice-cold fish was the worst that could happen to her that day, but when Bard’s son—Bain—told his father that their house was being watched, and when Bard propositioned an idea that could get the Company into his house unseen, she knew that things were going to get far worse.

She waited behind Thorin and Elijah, not being able to mask her anxiety any longer as she watched Kili sink into the icy waters. Bard made sure they all knew where to go before he went away to get into his house. It was not going to be very hard for Fheon, for she only had to follow the bunch of dwarves swimming in front of her. But as she stood there on the dock, aware of the pairs of eyes that were boring into her, her body was yet to stop quivering.

Five seconds after Kili submerged, it was Thorin’s turn. The Dwarf King glanced at Fheon over his shoulder, a concerned look in his eyes, before leaning down and gingerly dipping first his legs, then his entire body into the water. Ripples followed as he forced himself to sink, and then the shifting of the water as he swam after the others.

Elijah turned and ruffled Fheon’s hair, probably to ease her stress (which did not work at all), before sinking into the water as well. She counted to five at an average pace, clenched her stomach, took a deep breath, and then descended into the water before she could have second thoughts.

The water was even more freezing than she expected, or perhaps that was because she was already in such a horrible state of mind. Light from above refracted into the water, letting her see a few dozen feet ahead of her. Past her feet, everything gradually went dark; the lake was deeper than she had previously thought. But ahead of her, she could see Elijah’s feet kicking at the water behind him.

Thinking of a warm summer night in the forests of Hobbiton, with Hiram and Elijah at her side, she ducked her head, sank another few feet downward, and propelled forward. She remembered to gradually release oxygen through her nose, but her limbs were heavy with fatigue, and the surprising iciness of the water had already made her lose almost a quarter of the air in her lungs.

She made sure that Elijah was still in her sights when she floated back to the surface. Only her face broke through the surface of the water, for anything past that would have collided with the underside of the wharf above her. She took three deep breaths, and on the fourth, sank herself back into the water. Elijah’s shadowy figure was gone, but she propelled forward to the direction they were supposed to go anyway, and found him again in a few seconds.

They passed by the supports of three more houses before the dwarves ahead of her brother stopped and broke the surface. Each of their faces was positioned beneath Bard’s house’s dockside like lily pads, each of them letting the oxygen return to their lungs. Elijah did the same, and Fheon was quick to follow suit.

Her feet kicked weakly beneath her to keep her above water. It was too risky to slip her fingers into gaps between the wooden floorboards. Someone could step on them or worse: see them. She did her best to keep herself sane with images of campfires and scorching hot tea.

The never-ending smell of raw fish and oil and tar lingering in her nose did nothing to help. She found some relief in the fact that, one by one, the dwarves were disappearing from their places above water to swim up to Bard’s lavatory and into his house. First went Dwalin, and then Bilbo, and then Nori, Dori, Ori… and so on they went.

Elijah looked at her for a brief moment and said, “Just a bit more,” before it was his turn to sink.

Five seconds passed, and Fheon tried not to think about whether the inhabitants-of-Esgaroth’s discharge went directly into the lake or not. She submerged herself once more and kicked feebly towards the house. There in a corner, she looked up and found the hole of the toilet. She let a mouthful of air escape her lips and then, gathering her remaining strength, kicked upward.

She broke through the surface of the water and was met with the sight of Bain’s adolescent, freckled face. Teeth clattering together, Fheon grabbed his outstretched hand and let him help her out of the chamber pot. Her feet touched solid ground and, through her numb lips, she was able to manage a thank you. The boy muttered his response, something she was too tired to make out, and he led her up the stairs where the others were waiting.

Two girls were waiting there as well; both of them with the same hazel brown hair, the same dark brown eyes, and the same wide-eyed expressions on their faces. Fheon was sure that they would have held fierce looks if it were not for their confusion.

“An elf!” the younger girl exclaimed.

“She’s not an elf, Tilda,” patiently said Bard. “Can’t you see that for yourself?”

“I only meant it as a compliment,” Tilda explained, quickly masking her mistake. She said nothing more, ducking her head.

Fheon was still able to see the slight blush that graced her young face. She regarded the girl wearily before walking past her and to her brother, where she sat herself down on one of the stools by the table. She was aware of Tilda’s and her sister’s eyes still on her, no doubt curious as to what a woman was doing with a bunch of dwarves, but she was not in the mood to explain herself.

Bard clapped his hand on Bain’s shoulder. “Go get some dry clothes for our guests,” he told him, and then nodded to the older sister. “Sigrid, I’m sure you can lend some of your clothes to…”

Fheon did not raise her head when she offered her name, nor did she when the older girl, Sigrid, trudged upstairs along with her brother. The Company waited silently for their return, shaking uncontrollably in their soaking wet clothes. Water dripped onto the floorboards, though Bard did not seem to mind. Fheon rubbed her shoulder through the brace, welcoming the feeling of numbness. Perhaps she should have placed ice onto the bruise before, if it would have offered such relief—more relief than what Beorn’s herbs could offer.

It was only then that she felt exactly what the coneflower helped in. As she angled her shoulder here and there—which would have resulted in her eyesight going dim, before—the pain was lesser. Still there, but lesser. She decided she would have to find more coneflower if she was going to be fully-healed by the next orc attack.

Sigrid and Bain returned with their arms piled with poorly-knit, ragged clothes, but when the men of the Company slipped them over their own wet clothing, it looked thick enough. Fheon accepted Sigrid’s offer of her own clothes, quietly asking where she could change.

The girl led her upstairs and pointed to a door down the hall. “There.”

Fheon nodded in thanks and went into the given room to change. Carefully she unclasped Elijah’s cloak and removed her dripping tunic, and then came to realize that her chest wrapping stuck to her like bees to honey. She decided against asking Sigrid for a replacement, knowing that it would be too much to ask; the girl would have ashamedly done so anyway, but Fheon would not have made her do it.

She made a mental note to thank Sigrid for not giving her a dress, but had instead picked out a pair of dark pants, a plain, long-sleeved under-shirt, and a vest. When she was fully clothed once more, she returned downstairs where the others were waiting.

She laid Elijah’s cloak, her tunic, boots and her pants by the fireplace, where the dwarves had done the same, so the clothes would dry; barefoot she walked and could not help but to mind the coldness of the wooden floor shooting up her ankles. Tilda came up to her and handed her a blanket, which she wrapped about herself gratefully.

“Thank you,” Fheon murmured. The girl replied in kind with a smile.

Meanwhile, Thorin was sitting by the window, staring at something far away. He whispered something to himself. Fheon was too far away to have heard, but she did hear Bilbo say to him, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

When Elijah inched closer to them, she followed suit, albeit less enthusiastically.

“The last time we saw such a weapon, a city was on fire,” Balin was saying. “It was the day the dragon came, the day that Smaug destroyed Dale. Girion, the Lord of the City, rallied his bowmen to fire upon the beast. But a dragon’s hide is tough, tougher than the strongest armor. Only a Black Arrow fired from a windlance could have pierced the dragon’s hide. And few of those arrows were ever made. The store was running low when Girion made his last stand.”

“Had the aim of men been true that day,” said Thorin, turning his head so as to look to Fheon, “much would have been different.”

She threw him a sympathetic gaze for a moment before returning to her casually apathetic demeanor.

Bard stepped forward and regarded the dwarves with wary eyes. “You speak as if you were there.”

“All dwarves know the tale,” Thorin easily lied.

“Then you would know that Girion hit the dragon,” Bain cut in, almost angrily. “He loosened a scale under the left wing. One more shot and he would have killed the beast.”

Behind him, Dwalin chuckled half-heartedly. “That’s a fairy story, lad. Nothing more.”

Thorin turned on Bard with hard eyes. “You took our money,” he said. “Where are the weapons?”

“Wait here,” said the bargeman, before turning and exiting the house. It came to Fheon’s attention that Sigrid and Tilda had disappeared from the main room. She guessed that they retreated to their rooms upstairs, where they were no doubt blathering to themselves about the dwarves in their home. Under swapped circumstances, it was what Fheon and Elijah would have been doing.

Abruptly, Thorin called for the Rangers. They walked to where he, Balin, Fili and Kili were standing in a small huddle. Joining the circle, Thorin threw Bain a suspicious look.“Tomorrow begins the last days of autumn,” he said.

“Durin’s Day falls the morn after next,” added Balin. “We must reach the Mountain before then.”

“And if we do not?” Kili whispered. “If we fail to find the hidden door before that time?”

Fili shook his head. “Then this quest has been for nothing.”

“That’s not a lot of time at all,” said Elijah. “If we plan on having a chance at finding the door at all, we must leave by nightfall tomorrow. There is still a wide expanse of lake between us and Erebor.”

The six of them were silenced when Bard re-entered the house. A rod bag hung from his shoulder. He laid it down onto the table and unzipped it, revealing a small pile of metal equipment; but they were not weapons at all. Fheon was able to discern a fishing rod, as well as a pike hook among the pile. There were no swords whatsoever, save for something that resembled a small-headed sledgehammer.

As the dwarves stared down confusedly at each of the tools, Thorin picked up the pike hook and snapped, “What is this?”

To which Bard replied, “A pike hook, made from an old harpoon.”

“And this?” asked Kili, handling the thing that resembled a sledgehammer.

“A crowbill, we call it—fashioned from a smithy’s hammer. It’s heavy in hand, I grant, but in defence of your life, these will serve you better than none.”

Fheon could not help but to admire the bargeman’s confidence, despite the fact that he had failed to follow their deal. He had not given them weapons. He had given them tools that would help them _survive_ , not fight.

“We paid you for _weapons_ ,” Gloin pointed out, enraged. “Iron-forged swords and axes!”

“It’s a joke!” said Bofur, throwing his given fishing tool back onto the table. One by one, the dwarves followed suit. Fheon and Elijah were much calmer with laying the ‘weapons’ down, but they did it nonetheless.

“You won’t find better outside the city armory,” Bard argued. “All iron-forged weapons are kept under lock and key.”

Balin turned to face the King Under the Mountain. “Thorin,” he said—a little louder than Fheon would have wanted. She cleared her throat softly and looked down at her bare toes, scratching her ear. The dwarf continued more quietly, and she forced herself to concentrate in order to hear: “Why not take what’s on offer and go? I’ve made do with less. So have you. I say we leave now.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bard suddenly said, raising his voice.

Fheon fixed her eyes on him, a cold stare. “What makes you think you can stop us?”

“There are spies watching this house and probably ever dock and wharf in the town,” he explained grimly. “You must wait ‘til nightfall.”

At this, the dwarves returned to their seats in defeat. Kili gingerly set himself down onto the bench by the window and looked down at his injured leg distastefully. The blood from the wound had already soaked through the bandages, blossoming red against the dirty white of the wrapping. “Have you got any more of that lemon balm?” he asked.

“I’m all out,” Fheon replied, and then a thought occurred to her. She raised a finger, told him to wait, and then trudged up the stairs. Looking down at the hallway, she softly called for Sigrid and waited for a mere few moments before the first door to the right opened, revealing the young woman.

“What is it?” she said, obviously wary.

“You don’t happen to have an herbal supply around the house, do you?”

Sigrid closed the door. “What kind of herbs?”

“Pain-relievers.”

“Well… we have a jar of mint leaves in the kitchen.”

“That’s perfect.”

Fheon managed a smile as she followed her downstairs and into the kitchen, where the girl reached up into the cupboard to grab a jar filled with the small green leaves. Fheon, after asking for permission, popped a few of it into her mouth, and watched as Sigrid procured a chopping board and spilled a handful of the leaves onto the board. The girl chopped them, placed the pieces into a small bowl, let a few drops of water onto it before handing it to Fheon, who accepted it gratefully.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked, looking at the girl with kind eyes.

“When we get colds, Da would do the same and rub the salve onto our chests,” replied Sigrid. “He said it was better than drinking tea.”

“Not always,” said Fheon, before re-entering the living room and handing the bowl to Bofur. “Here, just like the lemon balm. The rest of the Company can use it as well, for their bruises and other wounds.”

“Have you gotten some for your shoulder?” he said.

“Not yet.”

He scooped some of the ointment onto his fingers and then shoved the bowl back into her hand. “Here, take it. You need it more than we do.”

She regarded his stance for a moment, and found that he was in a much better state to be arguing—the very opposite of her. Nodding half-heartedly, she retreated to the other side of the room and sat on the bench there, dropping her blanket onto her lap. Getting some of the ointment onto her fingers, she carefully slipped past the firm shoulder brace and dabbed the cool herbal mix onto her bruise.

Where her fingers touched the skin, an ache appeared, but nothing that was not lost beneath the quickly spreading cooling sensation. She managed a sigh and let her head drop in relief.

The dwarves slipped into an anxious silence, impatient to get their weapons and leave for Erebor. They did not have much time. On the table, Sigrid and Tilda (who had just come down from her room) laid down bowls of leftover soup for everyone. Bilbo was the first to get to them, and Fheon waited for the dwarves to get their share before starting to drink her own.

On a plate at the center of the table, she pulled out a small loaf of bread, broke a piece off, dipped it into the soup, and then ate it. It was delicious.

Sigrid handed them cups of warm tea, and even then, when the hot soup had done its part, each one of the Company still accepted the drinks with gratitude.

At some point, Elijah asked her, “How are you feeling, sister?”

“Better.”

“Better meaning warmer, no?”

Shrugging, she just grunted and sipped at her tea.

He smiled and leaned back. “Get used to it. Perhaps you’ll become immune and be able to slay the dragon with ease.”

“I hardly have enough years to develop such things. I thought I was immune to orc blows and look where I’ve gotten myself.”

“You were being careless,” he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“Who do you think I got that trait from?”

“Oh, I don’t know… perhaps it was father?”

Hearing this, Fheon’s high spirits deflated instantly. She set her mug down and started busying herself with undoing the intricate elf-work on her hair. “Perhaps,” she muttered, more to herself than to her brother.

Elijah caught on quickly enough. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he hastily said. “I was only trying to lighten the mood.”

“I know, and you did a remarkable job.” She offered him a small, reluctant smile. “I just need to rest is all. You should provide entertainment for the dwarves. I reckon they’ll appreciate it after the hellish two days we’ve just been through.”

“Rest well.” He generously helped her off the seat, only moving to sit by the dwarves when she was past his view. Fheon had been watching him from the corner of her eye.

Relieved, he entered the room Sigrid had pointed her to before and decided that it would have to do. Not that they were staying overnight, anyway. She expected that Thorin would have them leave as soon as they got their weapons—but _how_ they were going to acquire then weapons she had no idea.

She forced herself to settle down, focusing on her breathing as she settled into the rough sheets of the bed. Sighing deeply, she cleared her mind—which was considerably easy, considering her amount of fatigue—and allowed her eyelids to flutter closed. In less than a minute, she had managed to fall into a deep sleep.


	20. Esgaroth II

It was a fitful, dreamless slumber.

When Fheon awoke, she was alarmed to find that the sun had gone down—not quite completely dark out yet, but the day was long gone, the sky turning purple as night began crawling in. Startled, she shot up. The blanket fell away from her shoulders to rest by her knees. She did not remember having pulled it up so far.

She stood up, ignoring the coolness of the floor and the slight ache in her shoulder, and rushed downstairs. Sigrid and Tilda were setting the table, Bain was sitting on a stool by the door, looking quite anxious, whereas Bard, Bilbo, and the dwarves were nowhere to be found. The children’s eyes turned to her and Fheon’s stomach clenched in dismay.

“Where is your father?” she demanded.

“He went to the armory,” answered Sigrid, “To look for the dwarves.”

“The others were allowed to enter?”

“No. I overheard the fat one with the red hair. He said that they were going to break in.”

“They’re planning on leaving me?” Fheon whispered to herself, horrified.

Had that been Thorin’s plan all along—to leave _her_ , the one with the minor injury—and let his nephew with the gaping hole in his leg to tag along? The Company would never have survived without her and Elijah! Then, remembering her brother, she started to ponder whether he had agreed to Thorin’s plans.

A low snarl escaped her throat and she had to turn around to hide her deep scowl from Bard’s progenies. Bristling, she whirled around, about to go after the dwarves.

Because he stood by the door, Bain was able to block her from exiting the house. And though she could have pushed him away any second, she decided not to. “Don’t,” he protested. “They’re sure to have been caught by now. You’ll only make things worse.”

“I’m going to help them—”

“The Master already dislikes my father. When he finds out that he smuggled a band of dwarves into town, Da will be thrown into jail, _with_ your friends. If you go to them now, you’ll be captured too a-and then there’ll be no chance of escape. You should stay here so that you can go to them when the need arises.”

She regarded the boy warily. “Since when did you start thinking for the cause of my… friends?”

“I…” He paused. “Your brother, Elijah, he told us the story of the dwarves.” Fheon almost thought that he meant Thorin’s _real_ story, the true past of the dwarves of Erebor, but then he continued, “He said that their family member at the Iron Hills was severely sick, and that the dwarves just wanted to reach him before it was too late… I wouldn’t want my family to be the one to keep them from finishing their journey.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught Tilda nodding. “Plus,” the girl added, “we don’t like the Master very much either.”

“You can stay here with us and wait for the news,” said Sigrid. “If the Master does imprison our father and your friends, we can help you get them out.”

The corners of the Ranger’s lips twitched up in an almost-smile. “I doubt that you could help me much, but alas, your minds are in the right place. I will stay here with you.”

Bain released a small sigh of relief, before a somewhat defensive look crossed his face. “I know how to swing a sword,” he said. “Da had one, once, and he taught me a bit before the Master took it from him.”

“I never said anything about using swords.”

“I know how to pick a lock,” said Tilda, and then nodded to her sister. “Sigrid taught me.”

Blood rushed up to Sigrid’s face, and she tried to hide it with her hair, but she had tied it into a bun. “I-I thought it would be useful at the time,” she stuttered abashedly. “Obviously, proper women aren’t supposed to have anything to do with sneaking around and… and _snitching_ anything—”

“Is that what your father told you?” Fheon interrupted, allowing the amusement to show on her face at the look on Sigrid’s face; the girl would not meet her eyes. “Never mind it. Forget I said anything.”

Fheon walked to the fireplace, where her clothes were the only ones left hanging by the mantelpiece, and slipped her now-dry boots onto her feet. She left her tunic where it was. If there was still going to be time, she would change out of Sigrid’s shirt and wear the tunic. But if there was no time, then Bard would surely find a useful purpose for the torn clothing.

She pulled up a stool for herself and set it facing the door. There, she sat with her arms crossed and waited intently. Sigrid and her siblings slipped into an uncomfortable silence—uncomfortable because Fheon was there and they were not yet too accustomed to her company.

She did not mind, but she could not help but to ponder if they were unaccustomed… or _frightened_. Either way, she was not going to stay for long.

Several minutes into the lapse of silence, the siblings cleared the table behind her and Sigrid immediately went about to washing them. Fheon glanced over her shoulder and found a single plate and pair of utensils had been left, which was most likely for Bard— _if_ he was coming back tonight.

Seeing the plate, she could not help but to remember how, when she was younger, she and her mother had used to do the same for Elijah and Leon. Fheon’s mother had always served supper before 6, and the men would not come home from the fields until another half hour.

She thought she had already learned to control such memories from coming into mind, but it seemed that, seeing the family before her, it was rather impossible to keep the thoughts out.

And then, as if on cue, she felt something lightly tap her shoulder. Fheon turned her head to find Tilda hovering behind her with an uncertain look on her face. “What is it?” inquired Fheon.

“Your hair’s a mess,” the girl replied straightforwardly.

Fheon’s corner lip twitched up slightly. “I suppose it is.”

“And since you’re going to be walking around with a bunch of men and all, I thought I could fix it for you… if you don’t mind,” she hastily added.

“I don’t mind.” Fheon let her eyes wander to the side, where she found Sigrid standing by the sink; the girl was looking away but she could still see the amusement on her face. Fheon knew enough that Tilda would not speak to her so frankly if there was no reason to. “Do you have a comb?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then do as you will.”

Fheon patiently let the girl comb through her dark tresses that now reached only an inch or two above the small of her back. It was dry and scruffy from being left as it was while she slept, but Tilda’s comb quickly sorted out the tangles and soon her fingers were running through her hair with ease.

Over the course of the many years, no one else had handled her hair apart from herself and Elijah. His fingers were sweaty and clumsy, and he would sometimes pull too hard. But in her childhood, there were two other women who handled her hair for her: Mina and Lenora.

Lenora had been the one to handle Fheon’s hair most of the time, for their mother had always been very busy and she would say that they had to learn. Of course, Fheon would do her hair when she needed to, but whenever Lenora wanted to, she would let her.

Now, feeling Tilda’s gentle hands against her scalp, Fheon felt a strong sense of nostalgia course through her. She did her best to ignore it and focus on the situation at hand: that she was waiting to find out whether her trip to Erebor was to be a lone one, or if it would have to be delayed in order to break into the city jail and free the fifteen foolish beings who were her companions.

It helped, but only little, so she settled for talking. Talk would aid in keeping her mind from wandering.

“Did you really think me an elf before?”

Tilda hesitated before answering, “Yes.”

“You meant it as a compliment, you said.”

“Da always told us that all elves were very beautiful, but that some of them were uncaring and prideful.”

“They are also very tall. The older ones are even taller than your father. Tell me, do you think me a very tall person as well?”

“Well, no… but you are very beautiful. I haven’t seen very many beautiful people around here apart from my sister. I wasn’t old enough before to remember what my mother looked like, but Da tells us that she was even prettier than an elf. Is that possible?”

“Very possible,” Fheon replied. “A pretty face means nothing if there is no compassion in one's heart.”

After a long moment of silence, the girl asked, “Are you like that?”

Immediately, Bain straightened up in his seat and scolded her—“Tilda!”—which was followed by Sigrid’s exclamation—“Why would you say that?”

“She just speaks her mind is all,” Fheon said, craning her neck to give Tilda an odd look as she waved the other two younglings off. Speaking to Tilda, now, she murmured, “When you grow up, you must learn to be conscious of the words that leave your mouth. And I say this as someone who learned that the hard way. You understand?”

The girl nodded her head rapidly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Fheon offered her a little smile before returning to her previous position and letting Tilda continue braiding her hair. She was quiet for a while, once again lost to the memories of her own, fallen sister—how similar she and Tilda were. “As for my heart… I’d like to think that my decisions have been the results of a clear conscience, that they’ve been for the greater good. If not… then I suppose fate will have my hand sooner or later.”

Tilda stopped asking questions and sorted through her tresses in a calm hush. It was Sigrid who broke the silence next. “Where are you and your brother from?”

“A small village by Evendim, in the North,” Fheon answered.

“And your parents?”

Fheon was caught by surprise. Not many people would bother to ask question, but she caught herself soon enough. “Both of them are from Evendim as well. They met as children and married when they were of age. But if you were hoping for something more interesting, my mother told me that her grandmother always spoke of a land far across The Encircling Sea.”

“But there is nothing past The Encircling Sea except for the Undying Lands,” Sigrid argued. “Surely your great-grandmother did not come from there?”

“She did not speak of the Undying Lands,” said Fheon. “She spoke of a land named Essos, where there was a city called Meereen. She also said that, in her youth, she once served the beautiful and just queen of Meereen, Daenerys. The queen had taken her in when her parents were killed and she was taken as a slave.”

By that time, Bain had pulled his seat closer in interest. “How did Daenerys free her?” he asked. “Did she buy her?”

“Before rising up to rule, the queen killed the masters of Meereen and freed every slave, and soon took the throne for her own.”

“Killed them?” Sigrid frowned. “I thought she was a just queen!”

“The masters there were cruel and harsh with the slaves.They whipped them and beat them and had them walk around in chains with almost no clothes on.”

Tilda’s hold on her hair tightened. “That’s horrible!” Fheon nodded in agreement.

“But Daenerys had a very powerful army, as well as dragons.”

There was a collective gasp around her. “Dragons!” said Bain. “But… but dragons… They cannot be tamed! How was she able to control them?”

“She was of the House Targaryen, known to be a noble family of dragon lords. They kept and rode them, but for a while the dragons became extinct, until the queen was able to hatch three eggs. With these dragons, she was able to attain her army, gain allies, and conquer many cities.”

Sigrid shook her head. “A land across The Encircling Sea, a house of dragon lords, and three _tamed_ dragons… Was your great-grandmother sane when she told this story to your mother?”

“I would not know. I was not yet born when she passed away.” Fheon managed a small smile. “Think of it however you want. I am sure all of us have more urgent matters to worry about.” From the corner of her eye, she caught the three siblings share looks with each other.

Tilda’s grip on her hair disappeared. “Finished.”

Fheon felt at the braid behind her head with one hand, gently running her fingers over the interwoven strands. She was satisfied to find that it was cleanly done, tight and firm, but comfortable. She glanced over her shoulder and softly thanked Tilda. The girl’s face brightened and she nodded in return, perhaps even curtseying slightly. Fheon smiled, and for a moment, she saw Lenora standing there instead.

Dazed, she shook her head to snap herself out her stupor. Just as she did so, the door only a few feet away from her swung open, revealing Thorin.

Fheon was immediately on her feet, the kind expression on her face hardening into anger. Small relief flooded through her at the thought of not having to break them out of prison, but it was easily masked by displeasure at the dwarf for having left her behind.

His eyes were hard, as they were most of the time, but there was something about the way he carried himself that tipped her off. Her interest was piqued, and for the moment, her exasperation ceased to exist. Behind him, she noticed the rest of the Company lined up outside the house, along with her brother (who, upon seeing her, smiled brightly), and along with Bard. She quickly started a headcount and, finding that no one was missing, faintly relaxed her shoulders.

“I take it you have gained the needed amount of weapons?” she asked in her usual composed voice.

“We have,” answered Thorin in an equally collected tone, “Along with the Master’s approval. He has agreed to give us everything we need in order to complete our quest.”

He walked into the house and was quickly followed by theother members of the Company. Fheon counted again: thirteen dwarves, one hobbit, and two humans.

Elijah bounded up to her and made a move to ruffle her hair, but she expected this and was swift to dodge out of his reach. He gave a hearty laugh. “Oh, why the frown? The Master’s given us his approval! We would be celebrating if it were not for our tight schedule…” He kept looking at her for a while, and a frown slowly eased onto his face. “I’ve done something, haven’t I?”

She looked at him with hard eyes. “As soon as you got the weapons, you were going to go straight for Erebor, weren’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you would have left me here?”

“No! No, _of course_ not. Thorin mentioned it before but I never would have done it! But then... considering your shoulder, it might be a good idea—”

“My shoulder is _fine_ ,” Fheon hissed. “And I will hear you out, but I assume that you were taken to the Master—you were _caught_. Thorin never would have had the chance to talk to him, unless you strolled into his home, which is something that you definitely did not do.” Her brother’s expressions clarified her statement. “So you were caught stealing and then brought to him. What would have happened if he did not offer your amnesty, if he had been feeling even the least bit generous tonight?”

His eyebrows furrowed together in seriousness. “I see your point.”

“You would have been thrown into _prison_ , Elijah.”

“I never would have let it happen. I would have found a way,” he said, and her gaze hardened even more. “You must realize, sister, that you are not the lone protector of this Company. I started this quest with you, pulled you into it, and I will not let you carry the entire burden.I swore to myself to defend our allies, but you will never stop being a priority. _Never_.”

He placed a hand on her right shoulder and squeezed. There was an honest glint in his eye that she could not ignore.

Her anger slowly ebbed until it was a mere prick at the back of her head. She let it recede, knowing that arguing would not help them in the slightest. Sighing, she patted her brother’s hand. “Fine.”

The giddiness returned to his face and he said, “But you know, otherwise, the Company goes first.”

Fheon wordlessly agreed, knowing that he was in a joking mood; however the mantra itself was not a joke. In fact, the two of them had to take it more seriously than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DON'T OWN GAME OF THRONES OR DAENERYS OR HER DRAGONS AHAHAHA DON'T SUE ME


	21. Esgaroth III

There weren’t enough bedrooms in the house to accommodate the sixteen members of the Company, so only two were allowed to share the extra room upstairs.

Elijah did not suggest that Fheon be one of the lucky people, and for that she was thankful. She had gained enough rest while the dwarves were busy breaking into the armory. Her first suggestion was Bilbo, but he waved her off, stating that he was more than fine. Fheon regarded his steady frame with approval. He had become stronger than the hobbit that had left the Shire.

Scanning the room once more, she next suggested Kili, for he was the weakest of the lot, and in this Thorin agreed with her.

“If no one else finds the need to sleep in a room with blankets,” said Fili, “I would like to stay with my brother tonight.”

Everyone gave him their consent, and he helped a pale, limping Kili up the stairs. Fheon stared after them until they had disappeared from her view, at which point, she sat down on the bench across the room, by the window that looked over all of Lake-town. Silently, she watched as the dwarves settled down.

The few that sat on the second bench across the room had their legs leaned on by the dwarves who sat on the floor. Those who sat by the table were done the same, but they were accommodated to cross their arms on the tabletop and place their heads into the crook of their elbows.

It did not surprise Fheon to find Thorin sitting cross-legged on the floor at a corner of the room, with his head against the wall. The King Under the Mountain appreciated his privacy, after all.

Sigrid and Tilda served them the leftovers of their dinner, which Fheon was positive had been cooked for the family only. Fheon rejected her share, as did Elijah, so that the dwarves would have more to eat. The two Rangers plucked out some of their self-control and limited their intake that night to water—nothing more.

Before Sigrid retreated upstairs for the night, Fheon told her to prepare more food for their breakfast, adding in the fact that it was going to be a very early morning for them all. The adolescent only nodded briskly before turning and trudging up the stairs.

Elijah finished his fifth straight glass of water before pulling his cloak about himself and muttering good night to Fheon. She grunted in reply and took a slow sip from her sixth glass of water, watching his eyes flutter closed. In a short minute, he had begun snoring.

Fheon left a quarter of water in her cup, standing up to place it on the kitchen sink before quietly returning to her seat by the window. The dwarves were sound asleep; she tried to remember when was the last time they had been able to rest in warmth and safety. It was before they entered Mirkwood, almost a week ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

A fire had been lit within the chimney corner and it sent waves of balminess throughout the living room, but it was snowing outside and the cold drafts slipped into the gaps and cavities of the house.

Frowning, Fheon tossed the two corner tips of her blanket over her shoulders and pinned them against the wall with her back. Beneath the thick cloth, she rubbed up and down her arms, doing her best to warm herself.

When she sensed someone staring at her, she slowly raised her head to find Thorin’s eyes trained on her from across the room.

She returned his gaze evenly, managing an inward sigh. It was no use to stay angry at him now. The hurdle had been crossed and there were still many more battles to fight, more enemies to vanquish… namely, a thousand year-old fire-breathing dragon. Together, it already seemed impossible to defeat it. What would happen if they were to start fighting amongst themselves? No, she had to bury her pride.

“What happened, exactly?” she said, softly so that the snoring dwarves wouldn’t wake.

He sighed through his nose. “We went to the armory. Everything was going according to plan until Kili slipped and sent our weapons tumbling down some stairs. The noise was enough to attract the attention of the guards.” He shook his head, and Fheon once again wondered why he had brought Kili along instead of her. “So, we were brought in for an audience with the Master of Lake-town.”

“And then?”

“And then we convinced him to let us continue our quest. No help came from our new bargeman. He tried to sway the Master and the people of the town, saying that our journey for the Arkenstone would only bring them death and ruin, and he also failed to mention that Girion, the Lord of Dale Balin had told you about, was in fact an ancestor of his,” Thorin spat. “He tells us of the destruction we _might_ bring, when it was _his_ blood that failed to protect Dale… He is a coward.”

“But tell me, Thorin,” said Fheon. “When we enter the mountain, and when you send Bilbo off to his mission for the King’s Jewel, won’t he then disrupt the silence of the chamber where the jewel lies? If this happens, can you ensure that we will be able to keep Smaug within the mountain or, quite impossibly, kill him?”

A shadow crossed the dwarf’s face, which was not easily caught beneath the dimness of the room.

Fheon leaned forward slightly and softened her gaze. “I ask this as a friend, Thorin, but also as someone who cannot help but to worry for the well-being of the innocents in this town. My brother would say the same to you if I were the one sleeping instead of him. And so I will ask it again: Can you ensure the dragon’s downfall, as well as the people’s safety?”

Doubt appeared on his face, which was more than she could have hoped for at the moment. His forehead creased as his eyebrows met, but his eyes remained serious and ever grimmer. Ripping through the silence, he answered her: “No.”

Her lips pursed together in a thin line, and then she forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “As is what I expected,” she said, tucking the blanket tighter around her body. “I won’t abandon this quest for the sake of my being sentimental. My brother and I have already sworn to put the Company—you, your kin and Bilbo—first. But you should know that I also do not take lightly the safety of the people in this town.” Her voice dropped into barely a whisper. “Being one of the few people I have told my story to, you should understand why I wouldn’t want Lake-town to be lost in the fire.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

Unnerved by his gaze, Fheon tore her eyes away from him and turned her attention to the buildings past the window frame she was leaning on. Without looking at Thorin, she said, “My apologies—I have kept you up for long enough. I will let you sleep.”

For several minutes, he was silent, letting her assume that he had, in fact, fallen asleep. But then his voice once again travelled across the room and into her ears. “When I first met you,” he said, “not for a moment had I thought that you would be like this.”

“Like what?”

“So… kind.” The corner of his lip twitched. “You are sometimes quick to snap at me and my kin, but only because you have worked so hard to get us this far, you and your brother. Your compassion precedes you, Lady Fheon.”

It was the first time anyone had ever bothered to call her a ‘Lady’. The title sounded meaningless in her ears, but in the firelight, she was able to discern a sparkle in his eyes, and _that_ was certainly not meaningless.

They regarded each other for a long while afterwards, both trying to somehow read the other’s mind when neither of them were experienced in any sort of sorcery or telepathy. Fheon noticed that, beneath his gaze, an odd sensation had crept into her stomach—most probably how it would feel to have swallowed butterflies. They sent light shivers down her spine.

Never before had she bothered to look at his eyes for so long; the first time they were caught in such a moment, she was overcome with fury. Now she had learned to hold her patience, especially with the King Under the Mountain.

Months before, she had already been able to notice how wonderful the shade of blue his eyes were: almost grey, like gathering storm clouds, but with the firelight reflecting off them, they appeared to her like glittering sapphires.

“I wish I could say the same for you,” she said, managing to break the trance she had been pulled into with her sudden amusement. “But to say that your compassion precedes you, Thorin Oakenshield, would be the height of folly.”

The King actually laughed. Not a chuckle, not a deep rumbling sound in his chest or a hum in his throat, but an actual, energetic and wholehearted _laugh_. “I suppose it would,” he said, the shadow of a grin still on his face. “But could you regale me, if just for tonight?”

She managed a small smile as well as she decided to humor him. “Then it is my pleasure to say that it has been an honor and my privilege to have fought by your side, for your compassion precedes you, O King Under the Mountain.”

He laughed again and the dwarves surrounding them stirred. Bilbo, in particular, mumbled in his sleep, but none of them woke. Fheon took this as an indication that her light-hearted conversation with the dwarf leader had to be put to rest.

Meeting his eyes once more, she said, “Sleep well, Thorin,” with a gentle note of finality in her voice.

He did not argue, and instead only returned the statement. “Sleep well, Fheon.” He rolled to his side. Fheon did not stare at him for much longer and tore her attention away from the dwarf, surprisingly, with reluctance.

She leaned back to place her head against the thick glass of the window and allowed her eyes to roam the ceiling for a minute or two. When they fluttered shut, she drifted into the land of dreams.

* * *

 

The sun had barely risen when the noise of the milling dwarves woke her up. Fheon was surprised it had not been her brother.

Without a word, she stood, walked to the table, grabbed a plate, topped it with a mound of the food Sigrid and Bard had cooked, and ate. The rest of the Company was eating swiftly, as well as her brother, and she did her best to follow suit. She requested chamomile tea from Sigrid and then drank it quickly, feeling the burn in her throat.

The dwarves were putting their plates away when there was a knock on the door.

Bard, who was still unhappy about the turn of events the previous night, pulled the door open to reveal more than a dozen children lined up outside. Each of them carried shiny, metal armor. Fheon saw that the Master could only provide them with breastplates, shoulder harnesses, and iron helms. She did not mind.

There were many people outside who were gawking and trying to sneak through the door. Bard ended up having to allow the children to enter the house. He locked the door and told Sigrid, Tilda, and Bain to go upstairs. The living room had become too crowded.

Apparently, there was one child for one member of the Company. And so the dwarves bustled about, hurriedly looking for which armor fit them perfectly; Bilbo was left to wander with them, for he was as close to their body type as he could ever get. It took Elijah a shorter while to find his set. He certainly had been given the largest and widest set of armor. Fheon simply went to the only girl in the group. The Master seemed to have found it amusing to send a lass to give armor to the only a girl in a man’s Company.

Frowning slightly, she took the clothes hanging from the girl’s shoulder: a clean tunic, a thick evergreen gambeson, and pants. She thought about her situation for a short moment before grabbing the girl’s wrist and gently leading her upstairs, into the room she had changed in before.

She sent the child a small, reassuring smile before undressing.

Fheon kept her chest wrapping and shoulder brace on, for the Master had not bothered to send her new pairs of either, and then slipped the new clothes onto her body. The gambeson was thicker than she had thought; long-sleeved and reaching past her collarbone, where it settled around her neck like a scarf.

She then relieved the child of her heavy burden. Fheon had been given a chainmail hauberk; not exactly _armor_ , but it was better than nothing. The sleeves of it reached just above her shoulders, but the tasset continued down her thighs as well to act as an iron skirt. Wearing it, she grew thankful that she had been given such thick cloth for her under-clothes, for the fringes of the armor were unforgiving and were sure to have scratched against her skin.

As she was tugging her boots back on, Fheon raised her head to find the child holding out a leather sword belt. Stunned, Fheon gently pried it out of her hands and pulled the sword out of its sheath. The grip did not fit within her hand perfectly, but she was positive that no weapon in the town ever would.

After strapping the belt around her waist, the child then handed her a cloak. It was very similar to the one she used to have, the one the Dunedain gave her, but this one was red and did not have the six-pointed clasp. Fheon clipped it on anyway.

And then the child handed her a bow and a full quiver of arrows; with this, Fheon was truly at a loss for words. Her shoulder prevented her from successfully pulling at the string until her finger touched her jaw, but the mere feeling of gripping the base of a bow was enough for her. She slipped the bow and quiver onto her back, lightly rolling her shoulders. Looking down at herself, with the green under-clothes, chainmail “armor”, cloak, long braid (which she had let stay, for it was still acceptable), sword-belt, and bow and arrow—she felt like herself again.

On the staircase, the girl ran past her and out the door immediately. It seemed that the rest of the children had already gone away. It was only when Fheon reached the kitchen that she realized it was too late to apply more mint balm onto her shoulder. She set her jaw and became determined to grit through it.

The dwarves had finished donning their own sets of armor and were bustling about the living room, anxious to continue the journey.

Before they left, Fheon quickly pulled her brother aside and into the kitchen, where they raided the shelves for the herbs they might need. As they did so, a continuous stream of apologies escaped Fheon’s mouth, directed to Bard, who was standing behind them with crossed arms. She handed the large pouch filled of medicinal herbs to Balin. By that time, Bard’s offspring had come down into the living room once more. As the dwarves were slowly streaming out of the house, Fheon had to stop and wait for Elijah, who had taken to stand in front of Bain.

He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and offered a smile, saying, “Take care of your sisters.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bain, and Elijah’s smile grew wide. He said his thank-you’s and goodbyes to Sigrid, Tilda, and then finally, Bard.

Fheon threw the children small smiles and gave their father a fleeting glance, a hasty wave of her hand, and then she and her brother were striding in the middle of a clean path before them. The people of Lake-town had stepped aside to let them through with ease. Still, by the time they had reached the edge of the town and were loading their newly-acquired belongings onto a boat, the sun had broken into the horizon.

“You do know we’re one short,” Bilbo pointed out.

Fheon, in fact, had not noticed this. She sent Elijah a look of alarm, to which he only shrugged. “I know.”

“Where’s Bofur?”

“If he’s not here, we leave him behind,” said Thorin, though not impatiently.

“We’ll have to,” Balin agreed. “If we’re to find the door before nightfall, we can risk no more delays.”

At first, Fheon was appalled by how they would so willingly just leave one dwarf behind when there was still a chance at time; then she raised her head and found Erebor staring back at her. It was a tall mountain, the peak only barely breaking past the ceiling of clouds. It was going to be a long and arduous trek up the mountainside, even though there were sure to be paths… She concluded that Balin was right, but was still reluctant. Only yesterday she had been the one complaining about being left behind.

When the dwarves finished piling their belongings onto the boat, they started loading themselves onto the vessel, one by one. The Rangers flanked the group, making sure that each one of them, aside from Bofur, was there. And it was to Fheon’s surprise when Thorin suddenly turned and stopped Kili from stepping onto the boat.

“Not you,” said Thorin. “We must travel at speed. You will slow us down.”

Kili looked at his uncle in confusion, and then a smile broke out onto his face. He thought he was jesting. “What are you talking about? I’m coming with you.” Until then, Fheon had not noticed how weak and frail his voice had become.

“Not now.”

Thorin shook his head, and the realization dawned upon Kili. “I’m going to be there when that door is opened,” he insisted. “When we first look upon the halls of our fathers, Thorin—”

“Kili,” Thorin interrupted. His voice was gentle, but his eyes brooked no argument. “Stay here. Rest. Join us when you’re healed.” He placed a hand on the back of the younger’s dwarf’s head in a reassuring gesture, before pulling away and stepping onto the boat—just when Oin stepped off it.

“I’ll stay with the lad,” said Oin. “My duty lies with the wounded.”

As he passed by, Fheon and Elijah slipped past Kili. The older of them threw the dwarf a heartening smile, while the younger offered a concerned look. They stepped onto the boat and Fheon could not help but to overhear Fili and Thorin conversing.

“We grew up on tales of the mountain,” Fili was saying. “Tales _you_ told us. You cannot take that away from him!”

“Fili—”

“I will carry him if I must!”

“One day, you will be king and you will understand,” said Thorin, and Fheon could see that he was trying to keep himself composed. “I cannot risk the fate of this quest for the sake of one dwarf… not even my own kin.” This was when the dusty-blonde dwarf stepped off the boat, and Thorin grabbed his arm. “Fili, don’t be a fool. You belong with the Company.”

“I belong with my brother,” Fili retorted, pulling his arm away and then retreating into the crowd, where Oin and Kili were.

Fheon stared after the three dwarves in distress, not knowing whether it was better or worse for the quest that there were less of them. Her apprehension was quickly turned to confusion when, suddenly, Elijah moved away from her and to Thorin.

He pulled the dwarf off the boat and spoke to him in low tones. His mouth moved quickly. She could not hear what either of them were saying past the roaring of the people of Lake-town. Unconsciously, her heartbeat sped up in slight panic as she watched a dark look across Thorin’s face. He nodded once, and then Elijah was walking to where Fili, Kili, and Oin were.

Fheon rushed to the edge of the boat, grasping the rails. “Elijah!” she called. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

A kind smile appeared on his face and he returned to stand by the boat, but he did not step onto it. “Someone has to stay and protect the dwarves, Fheon.”

“They have weapons. They can take care of themselves.”

“And what of their reputation? Who will keep them from making foolish mistakes, like robbing another armory or—”

“ _You_ are making a foolish mistake,” she hissed, losing her patience. “Do you really think I would allow us to be separated like this?”

He spread his arms and smiled again. “True siblings can work when they are apart just as well as they can when they are together. Father was the one who said that, long ago. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do.”

Both of them were shouting now, barely hearing each other above the noise of the crowd. People were waving their handkerchiefs and shouting farewells. The Master of Lake-town stood atop a podium overlooking the river trail, saying his goodbyes like everybody else. Someone was tugging at Fheon’s sleeve. From the corner of her eye, a short figure was pushing past the people. She vaguely felt the churning of the water beneath the boat and beneath her feet as the dwarves rowed, and her panic grew.

“Promise me,” she yelled at her brother. “Promise me we will see each other again.” It was the only thing she could think of at that moment that gave her hope.

His laugh reached her ears. “You’re overreacting, sister! I’ll always be with you. Enjoy your journey! And remember…” He winked knowingly at her. “The Company goes first.”

For once, her spirits were not lifted at the sound of their constant mantra. The roaring of the masses grew deafening and it became impossible to hear what Elijah was saying next. She could read his lips no longer.

And then they turned a corner, and Elijah’s tall, lanky figure—his familiar, cheery face—was lost to her.

It had been nary a minute that she had been separated from her brother, though she could already feel cold claws digging into her heart, suffocating her, limiting her movements. She had not moved from her spot by the edge of the boat, her fingers wrapped tightly around the railing. Soon, the roars of the people of Lake-town faded until they were only echoes across the water. It was early in the morning, and neither fog nor low temperatures would ravage them during the hours that passed.

But despite this, and despite the fact that there were more than half a dozen familiar people surrounding her, Fheon had never felt so alone.


	22. To the Halls of Erebor

The boat ride was quiet, and the waters were still; such were the proper conditions under their circumstances.

Thorin had just left his two nephews behind, though it was undecided whether he was feeling very melancholic about it. Fheon had just left Elijah behind—her brother, with whom she had spent the travelling along with the Company with, as well as drifting along her life.

He had been her anchor to sanity when they lost their home, just as much as she had been to him. Never had she bothered to think that they would ever be separated, except perhaps when they retired from Rangerhood, when their limbs were too weak to pull on the strings of a bow or hold a sword, when they would gain the right to settle down in a village, perhaps in Hobbiton, although Fheon very much doubted either of them would decide to have children.

The closer they got to the Mountain, the larger the chances grew of them actually being able to return to Eriador, and Bilbo to The Shire, and the dwarven folk to Erebor. Elijah was supposed to be safe in Esgaroth, but the panic that had grown within Fheon during their departure was only half because of her worry for him; the other half was worry for herself. Because the closer they got to the Mountain, the looming threat of Smaug grew ever more frightening.

How had Elijah so easily decided to stay behind while his sister travelled onwards to face the dragon? Was he so sure of her prowess, that she would be able to vanquish the beast? With her injured shoulder and weary mind, Fheon had never been so mistrusting of her abilities in her life. The more she thought about it, the more her sense of betrayal grew.

By the time she had come to reconcile with her circumstances, the shore of the Mountain had come into view. Composing herself, Fheon leaned against the railing of the boat, even sitting on it slightly, so that she could rest her feet. During the hour they had spent rowing towards Erebor, she had remained standing and looking out across the water, lost in thought.

She knew it would not do for her, the remaining scout of the group, to have weak legs when it came to climbing the mountain. Elijah would not be there to take turns scouting ahead with her. Thinking of her brother and finding that he was not beside her… it made her heart clench with despondency. She mused to herself: _Get this over with and then you’ll be able to see him again. Just don’t die._

The prospect, however, seemed improbable.

Once they reached the shore, the dwarves quickly stepped off the boat. Fheon was careful not to let her feet touch the small waves. Thorin took to the head of the group immediately, and then gestured for Fheon. “Come, Ranger,” he said. “You are still our scout, are you not?”

His lips turned upwards into a small smile—probably trying to lighten the mood—but she could not bring herself to respond positively to his advances.

She gave a sharp jerk of her head and bounded up to him dutifully. Giving the dwarf a sideways glance, she was about to stride past him and start leading the way—simply just following the clear parting of the grass ahead of them—when he grabbed her by the arm.

“I understand your worry for Elijah, Fheon,” he said, “but please do not let it affect the outcome of this quest.”

“Yes, Thorin.”

“May I have your word?”

_The Company goes first._ “You have my word.”

With nothing more to say, she gingerly peeled his hand off her arm and forged onward, leaving the Company to follow her as they wished. She did not need to bite the inside of her cheek, or purse her lips, or grit her teeth, for she did not wish to say a word. The dwarves would hear nothing from her.

* * *

 

They did not walk through thin forests of trees, nor was there much undergrowth to see. The few animals that passed by them were mountain goats, grizzly bears, big horn sheep, a few wild turkeys, and antelope.

When the dwarves’ need for lunch appeared, Fheon let Ori decapitate their food with his slingshot before she ran up to it and killed it with her sword. Her bow remained useless with her injured shoulder.

With the dwarf’s slingshot and her sword, they were able to catch two big horn sheep, an antelope, and a turkey. Since Thorin was positive that there were no other humans or orcs or dangerous, _two_ -legged beings on the mountain asides from their Company, he allowed Bifur to start a fire so they could cook their game.

It was for an hour that they laid the meat over the fire and let it cook, and then Thorin ordered that they eat on the way. Without horses to ride, Fheon was not sure whether it was harder or more convenient. Bombur cooked the turkey but kept it for a later time.

The dry, stony mountainside offered them some difficulty, for it had become so desiccated due to the low temperature that it was slippery beneath the dwarves’ feet. Fheon let them help each other while she did her best to keep her feet light and continue treading onward. The stick of antelope meat filled her stomach, and the gallon of water she had drunk the other night strengthened her limbs, though milk would have worked as well.

After finishing the meat, she chewed on a chamomile leaf, ignoring the strong unpleasant taste. She had already mixed a handful of the leaves into her canteen of water, willing it to strengthen her left shoulder immediately even if it was impossible. She longed to release a successful arrow again; it was much more rewarding than slashing a sword when her target was ten feet away.

In her musings, she accidentally lost her footing. Her arms shot forward reflexively to break her fall, and she ended up cutting her palm open on the tip of a jagged rock. It was not her sword arm, thankfully, but her left hand, which was the extension of her already-injured left shoulder.

A startled cry erupted from one of the dwarves. “Are you alright, lass?”

“I’m fine,” she grunted in response, not bothering to look over her shoulder.

The gash ran from beneath her forefinger to the center of her palm, where it was deepest. Crimson liquid flowed from the laceration and down the bottom of her wrist, soaking into the sleeves of her shirt. She tore the wet strip of cloth off her sleeve and secured it around her hand, to stop the bleeding.

Scowling slightly at the continuous stings of pain, Fheon gritted her teeth, pulled herself back onto her feet, and continued the hike up the mountain.

* * *

 

A time came when the slope of the mountain decreased, and the beds of rock disappeared from view, replaced by a flat, dry, vast piece of land that went on until past her field of vision. But to their sides, the large boulders remained.

It was high noon already and the sun had risen directly above them. Its rays beat down on the Company mercilessly. Beads of sweat streamed down the sides of Fheon’s face. Her body, beneath the chainmail, had become so slick with sweat, she was soon disgusted with herself. It occurred to her that only yesterday had they been laboring against _cold_ temperatures, and now it was the complete opposite.

With heavy feet, Fheon trudged through the temporary wasteland. The thought of having to reach the gates of Erebor before nightfall, which was only a few more hours away, gave her the urgency she needed to keep moving. Behind her, the dwarves had not complained once, not even Bilbo. It gave her the idea that perhaps they had already grown used to treading up mountains in such weather. Their kin were known to live in mountains themselves.

Harboring the thought of Elijah not being among them—not walking behind her, beside her, or ahead of her—made her feel a sense of weakness. Fheon became determined to not let the Company see her as weak, even though she knew that she had already shown them her dexterity many times over. Her pride would not allow it.

Her left hand throbbed at a rapid pace because of her fresh injury.

Eventually, the desert gave way to the return of stones, with grass and ferns peeking out from the rocks. Two hours afterwards, an obvious decline entered her view—a basin. And within this basin, there were the dark, charred ruins of a once-beautiful city. Fheon was able to register the scent of smoke and decay, and she knew what city she was standing before. The dwarves ran up from behind her to stand by the edge, proving as their overlook.

“What is this place?” asked Bilbo, standing beside Thorin.

“It was once the city of Dale,” Balin answered in a melancholic voice. “Now it is a ruin… the desolation of Smaug.”

“The sun will soon reach midday,” said Thorin. “We must find the hidden door into the mountain before it sets… This way!”

As he was about to walk away, Bilbo called, “Wait. Is this the overlook? Gandalf said to meet him here. On no account were we to—”

“Do you see him?” the Dwarf King interrupted. “We have no time to wait upon the wizard. We’re on our own. Come!” For the second time, he gestured for the Company to follow him and then turned, striding past Fheon. “We are close,” he told her. “There is no need for scouting anymore.”

She jerked her head once in reply, but said nothing. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, concern etched upon his face, before he strode forward. Wordlessly, she trailed after him and his kin. Bilbo soon fell into step with her.

“You don’t have to worry about Elijah, you know,” he said, cutting into the silence. “He and the others will be fine. We’ll have recaptured Erebor before we know it.”

Fheon glanced at him, forcing a blank expression to take up her face. She said nothing in reply, hoping it would discourage him from continuing to ramble. It worked. She made a mental note to apologize to him at a later date; but for the rest of the day, and perhaps another day after, she just wanted to be left alone.

* * *

 

Thorin was the one who led them into the dead-end. The mountain continued to ascend, but they had no more time to turn back and find the path leading up to the crags. They searched for an incline, or a ladder, or a stairway of some sort, because when Fheon looked above them, she could see something manmade peeking out from atop the cliff.

Lowering her head, the cliff-face stared back at her in challenge, as if saying, _“If you were smart, you would find the gradient in less than a minute.”_ Alas, it had been well over ten minutes of searching the landscape beneath the cliff, and they were yet to find anything of import.

For the second time that day, Thorin laid his sword upright, digging the blade into the soft ground in front of him, and yelled, “Anything?”

Fheon was taking a few seconds of rest upon a rock behind the King. She took a single large gulp from her canteen before clipping it back onto her belt.

“Nothing!” Dwalin called back in reply.

An impatient grunt escaped Thorin’s throat. He leaned down and pulled out the familiar square of yellow paper from his pack, the map. “If the map is true, then the hidden door lies directly above us,” he said, and then threw his head back, scanning the rock faces that surrounded them.

Fheon slowly rose to her feet and let her eyes roam the crags around her. The sun was drawing low. A few more hours and it would be gone. She sighed inwardly but then, in her frustration, she spotted something jutting out from the cliff-face—not an ordinary expanse of rock.

There were patterns on it that caught her attention. Just as she was starting towards it, Bilbo flit into her line of sight and pointed elatedly at the strange rock formation. “Up here!” he called.

Thorin ran up to the hobbit immediately, followed by his kin and Fheon languidly trailed behind them.

Past a rather large boulder that was jutting out of the cliff-face was an even more massive stone statue of a dwarf. In its hand was a sword or an axe; Fheon couldn’t know for sure. But starting from the crook of its elbow all the way down to the ground was a two-meter wide pillar. A maze pattern had been forged into the stone. Looking at its arrangement, Fheon deducted that it was not impossible to climb.

 “You have keen eyes, Master Baggins,” she heard Thorin tell Bilbo; a smile was on his face. He rushed up to the pillar and immediately starting ascending the entrenched staircase.

The eight dwarves who were the remainder of the Company followed their King unquestioningly, including the hobbit. Fheon decided to trail them from the back, remaining wary of their surroundings.

The climb was long and tiring, considering each one of them was _already_ exhausted. When they reached the top of the staircase, they scaled up the stone dwarf’s hand and walked on the handle of its weapon. Glancing downwards, Fheon found that it was, in fact, an axe.

At the end of the weapon was another staircase, but she was not sure if she could even call it that. It was steep enough to be properly called a ladder; only the slight angle of it allowed the Company to actually clamber it to the top of the Mountain. The staircase stopped at the stone dwarf’s ear, at which time, Thorin had already been able to lay eyes on the break of the mountain-face, the top of the cliff on which they were standing on.

Fheon was the last to reach the top of the staircase. When she did, Thorin was standing directly in front of the wall of the mountain. It was smooth enough for her to discern that one or two places behind it might have been hollow. She allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

They had found the entrance.

“This must be it… the hidden door,” Thorin breathed, running a hand across the smooth stone. The rest of the Company remained by the stone dwarf’s ear, emitting laughs and chuckles and exhalations of triumph.

Thorin retrieved the key to the mountain from one of his pockets, turned, and Fheon saw that his eyes were lit up like candles. “Let all those who doubted us rue this day!”

Cheers erupted from the small band of dwarves. Fheon managed a small smile.

The dwarves broke away from the statue behind them and approached the wall, eager to open the entrance into the mountain. “Right then, we have a key,” said Dwalin, stepping up to the wall and pressing his hands against it, “Which means that somewhere, there is a keyhole.”

“The last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole,” Thorin recited, standing on the edge of the cliff. The sun had started its descent and would soon disappear. They had two minutes, at most, to find the keyhole.

And so they waited. Dwalin ran his hands up and down the stone wall, occasionally knocking at the stone. Fheon reverted to counting the seconds in her head, and when she reached sixty, she knew that something was wrong.

She glanced over her shoulder the same time Thorin did, both of them taking note of how low the sun had gone. He ordered Nori to go over to the wall, and the dwarf obeyed. From his pockets, he pulled out a spoon and what looked like a metal funnel. He placed the wider end of the funnel onto the wall, and the smaller end a few centimeters into his ear. The spoon he used to softly knock at the wall. Fheon guessed that his method for looking for the hollow within the wall was the same as Dwalin’s.

“We’re losing the light,” Thorin hissed, panic evident in his voice as he looked at the setting sun. “Come on.”

Nori continued in his ministrations, though it was obvious by the manner of his spoon-knocking on the wall that he was starting to panic as well. Dwalin, in his impatience, started kicking at the stone barrier. His determination was commendable.

“Be quiet!” said Nori. “I can’t hear when you’re thumping.”

“I can’t find it,” Dwalin muttered, using his strong arms to push at the wall, perhaps hoping that it would make a difference. “It’s not here… _It’s not here!_ ”

The two minute marker had passed. They were fortunate enough to still have the sun, but it looked like they only had mere seconds before the light of Durin’s Day was gone.

“Break it down!” Thorin ordered.

The dwarves surged forward immediately, hefting their battle axes. They hacked at the stone with fervor, but not a single scratch appeared. There were no dents, no abrasions, and no marks left whatsoever. Sparks flew from the strength of the Company’s blows, but it was no use.

“Stop!” said Fheon. “You’ll break the only weapons you have!”

No one acknowledged her but Bilbo, who added in his agreement, which the dwarves did not acknowledge either.

To their right, Fheon heard Thorin’s strangled whisper: “It has to break.” He had not taken his eyes off the sun; it was sinking ever lower with every second that passed. The sound of shattering metal reached her ears, painfully rattling her eardrums. A flustered look ultimately edged onto her face. _Where’s the door?_

“It’s no good!” Balin finally concluded. He and Thorin were the only two dwarves who had not helped in the abusing of the stone. “The door’s sealed,” he said. “It can’t be opened by force. There’s a powerful magic on it.”

And with that, the sun disappeared beneath the peaks of the mountains. The day’s light was lost.

“No,” Thorin grunted, fury lacing his voice. He surged forth from the overhang and stood in front of the undamaged wall, pulling out the map. Everyone looked at him with wide eyes, including Fheon. “ _The last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole,_ ” he recited, and his voice cracked at the last word. Fheon’s heart clenched, sharing in his disbelief and anguish. “That is what it says…”

“We must have missed something,” Fheon suggested in a hoarse whisper. It was the only way she knew to keep her voice from breaking. “Something that Elrond couldn’t read, something—”

“What did we miss?” said Thorin, his grief-filled eyes trained on her as he approached her slowly. His hands were shaking. “What did we miss?” His statement turned into a broken whisper. He stared at her desperately, and then at Balin. “… Balin?”

The older dwarf shook his head. “We’ve lost the light,” he said. “There’s no more to be done.”

The finality in his words made Fheon’s stomach wrench even harder. A strong sense of misery overpowered her, and her emotions betrayed her. Her eyebrows furrowed together as a deep frown covered her face. She swallowed thickly to ensure a strong voice, but even then, it was difficult to find the right words.

“It can’t… It can’t have all been for nothing… We’ll find a way—we always have. Maybe it’s not even Durin’s Day yet. Maybe—”

“We had but one chance,” Balin told her, in an empathetic but stern voice. “Come away, lads… It’s over.”

He was the first of the dwarves to start the long trek back down the stone dwarf’s jaw. Soon, the others followed, all of them muttering in broken whispers. Seeing them, Fheon could not help but to feel the same way—to feel miserable. There was still hope in her chest, but only little, like a fire that had been drenched with water and was slowly flickering. An inevitable death. She cradled her head in her hands and tried to gather her thoughts.

“Wait a minute… Where are they going?” Bilbo muttered, glancing in a panic from the dwarves to Thorin. “You can’t give up now! We’ve come too far!”

The Dwarf King turned around and began walking after his kin.

“Thorin…”

He pushed the map into Bilbo’s chest.

“You can’t give up now.”

He did not seem to hear. Silently, he marched down the steep staircase and soon disappeared behind the rock of the stone dwarf’s beard.

Bilbo took to standing in front of the stone wall and reciting the runes from the map. “ _Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks..._ _The setting sun_ …”

Finally being able to form a coherent though, Fheon patted the hobbit on the shoulder. “Stay here and try to figure this all out,” she said before rushing down the steps and after the Company.

She missed one or two steps on several occasions and scraped her hands against the rock whenever she tried to keep herself from falling, in her hurry. Once Thorin’s familiar mane of dark hair was close enough, she reached a hand out and grasped his shoulder, forcing him to turn around. He was not even agitated when she did so; the only look on his face was one of pure sorrow.

“Thorin,” she chided gently. “We’ve come too far and nearly died too many times. You can’t lose hope—”

“What _hope_ is there?” he rebuked gruffly. “The light is gone. Durin’s Day will not come again for another dozen months. I doubt the Company will rally again, seeing as nothing happened. The map did not work.”

“Maps rarely do. _Thorin_.” She gripped his shoulder tighter when he tried to turn away. “We did not come all this way for nothing. Kili was not shot in the leg, I was not struck by a goblin, and you did not risk your life for this quest—just to _give up_.”

His forlorn expression remained. “Fheon—”

“ _Listen_ , you can’t lose hope. _You_ can’t. I don’t care if the others leave now and never turn back, but I will not let you do the same. You started this quest, nearly got us all killed _several_ times, and you will be the one to turn your back? After the compassion I so surely thought you’d had?”

At the look that crossed his face, he must have recalled the conversation they had had the night before. Her lip twitched up slightly, and her expression softened. “Hear me now, Thorin Oakenshield. You cannot lose hope, for when you have lost hope, you have lost yourself. And remember this: When things are dire and bleak…”

Above them, Bilbo’s voice echoed down the mountainside in waves of pure excitement. “The keyhole! Come back! Come back! It's the light of the moon—the last _moon_ of autumn!”

His laugh was contagious. Fheon allowed a small smile and squeezed Thorin’s shoulder. “There is always hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should put a disclaimer on that Hope quote. It's from I Am Number Four btw, if y'all haven't read any of the books. XD


	23. Smaug I

Bilbo almost let the key fall off the edge of the cliff, which would have been a disaster, because he had just found the keyhole, and Fheon had just succeeded in coaxing Thorin back into his own good graces.

Fortunately, the Dwarf King's reflexes were sharper than ever. The heel of his boot was able to press down on the key's lace before it fell off. With a sparkle in his eye, he picked it up and slowly inserted it into the newly-revealed keyhole.

His large hand shook as he twisted the key. A soft  _click_  sounded from behind the stone wall. Behind her, the dwarves shifted on their feet. Thorin placed his hands onto the wall, and, for a moment, his arms shook from the exertion—then the outlines of a rectangular door appeared from the rock. Dust particles fell to the ground as the framework revealed itself. The door swung open to bare a narrow hallway that led into the mountain.

For a while, everyone was quiet, seeming to hold their breath. Fheon surely was; somewhat unconsciously, her thoughts returned to her brother, who was waiting for her in Lake-town. She wished he could be there with them, silently rejoicing at the fact that their journey was coming to a close. But it was not yet finished, not quite yet.

"Erebor," Thorin whispered. He was facing away from the Company, but his sheer disbelief could be discerned from the slight trembling of his fingers.

Balin broke away from the Company in short, slow steps, to stand by Thorin. A strangled mutter escaped his mouth. "Thorin…"

The dark-haired king turned and placed a hand on the older dwarf's shoulder, and during that brief moment, Fheon was able to see that his eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

He stepped into the tunnel, hands travelling to the smooth stone walls within. "I know these walls…" he murmured in a shaky voice. “These halls… This stone…" Walking deeper into the passageway, now, he practically hugged the rock as he turned and looked to Balin. "You remember it, Balin—chambers filled with golden light."

"I remember," said Balin. Fheon gave him a subtle, sideways glance and saw wet stains trailing down his grimy cheeks.

One by one, the dwarves entered the tunnel. An awed silence hovered around them. Fheon thought that perhaps, for some of them, it was the first time they had ever laid eyes on the insides of Erebor. She decided to trail behind them and enter the mountain last, with Bilbo, for it was a much bigger deal for the dwarves of the Company. For minutes on end, she allowed the dwarves to stay in their serene stillness.

Thorin whirled around and placed his tear-filled gaze on Fheon. She met his eyes easily, offering a small twitch-up of her lips. Suddenly, he strode forward from his place by the stone staircase deep within the tunnel, stood in front of Fheon for a brief moment and simply looked at her, before encasing her within his arms in a tight embrace.

She lost her composure for a few seconds. Her body hummed against the warmth of his hold. And then slowly, ever so slowly, she wrapped her arms around him as well and gave his back a few languid strokes, before pulling away. When she did, she forced a sterner expression onto her face, but not without empathy.

A single tear had strayed from his eye and disappeared within his beard. He ignored it, saying, "Without you stopping me and getting me back to my senses, I fear I would never have come back. You gave me back my courage. Words cannot express my gratitude for you, Fheon."

"I suppose the hug was enough, don't you think?" she replied in a soft voice, eliciting a wide (but somewhat sheepish) smile. "I am your scout, Thorin. It's my job to keep you in check and make sure you don't die. And I'm afraid if you had turned your back on your quest, you would have lived your years in misery—a fate worse than death, if I say so myself."

"Nevertheless, you have my thanks."

Muttering into his ear, she said, "You owe me."

He cast at her a knowing glance and nodded in agreement.

She allowed another smile before Gloin's voice disrupted the silence. "Herein lies the Seventh Kingdom of Durin's Folk," he said, wide-eyed, reading the runes on the far wall above the doorway, "May the Heart of the Mountain unite all dwarves in defense of this home."

"The Throne of the King," Balin explained to Bilbo, referring to the engraved illustration of a throne.

The hobbit made a noise of understanding from the back of his throat and then pointed at the jewel-shaped symbol above the throne. "And what's that above it?"

"The Arkenstone," Balin replied in a grim tone.

"Arkenstone," Bilbo repeated, nodding his head. "And what's that again?"

Thorin stepped away from Fheon, and she surprised herself when a pang of disappointment ran through her. She shook away the feeling as the King spoke. "That, Master Burglar, is why you are here."

The dwarves turned their expectant gazes to the hobbit as Thorin nodded to Balin. The older dwarf placed his arm around Bilbo's shoulders, leading him deeper down the tunnel, ahead of Thorin and the others. His lips moved quickly as he muttered into the hobbit's ear, no doubt explaining his situation and what he was supposed to do.

The rest of the Company stayed where they were and so did Fheon, though her eyes followed the two beings that wandered into the mountain; several moments afterwards, they disappeared from her line of sight.

Her gut wrenched in worry for her hobbit companion, but she was in no position to stop him. The quest needed to be completed.

* * *

 

Soon afterwards, the dwarves receded to sit on the boulders on the crag outside, their feet aching from holding up their heavy, armored bodies for so long.

Fheon sat with her legs dangling from the cliff-face, her eyes scanning the horizon—how far they had come, and how close Lake-town seemed when looking in a bird's eye view. It was colder, where they were, but the clothes the Master had provided were thick enough to keep them warm. Fheon removed her bow, quiver, and cloak from her shoulders and laid them on the ground beside her.

Her eyes stayed glued to the far-away city of Esgaroth, silhouetted beneath the thick mist. She wondered what Elijah might have been doing at that moment, while she was sitting on one of the many cliff-faces of Erebor. There were no forests for him to hunt in. He could be taking a nap, or eating warm, seasoned, home-cooked food, or speaking with Kili and, perhaps, even tending to his injury at the same time. Fheon smiled at the possibility of him taking a bath in the small, fish-smelling lavatory of Bard's house.

For half an hour or so, she let her mind wander. Behind her, the dwarves were doing no different. Sometimes, they were able to latch onto a conversation. But none ended too happily, or with a laugh, for they knew the troubles Bilbo could be going through as they sat in peace. Their hearts went out to their ally, who was putting himself in great danger for the redemption of a race that was not his own.

"If he does fail," she heard one of the dwarves say, "it would be a most fulsome death." The thought made her frown.

A memory from the night before emerged. It was of her asking Thorin for a promise—a promise that they would be able to kill dragon Smaug before it flew out of the mountain to rein havoc on the city of Lake-town. He had not sworn anything, except for the unsaid fact that they would do everything they could.

It did not relieve her in the slightest, for she knew that Bilbo could be fried to a crisp at any given moment; that Smaug could kill them all with a single swipe of his claw, and that her brother was in Esgaroth, the town that Smaug would no doubt destroy in his rage.

There was a possibility that he would not wake, and that Bilbo would come out of the mountain in one piece,  _with_  the Arkenstone. But even Fheon knew enough not to fool herself with such a fantasy. It was a most unlikely possibility.

By that time, her mouth already felt like sandpaper. She quenched her thirst with a few gulps of her now-warm, mixed-with-chamomile water. It helped, but not much. She licked her lips to find that the skin had turned dry and was peeling.

Sighing inwardly, she borrowed a whetstone from Dori and attended to her new sword. When she had first received it, she had noticed that the blade was quite dull—or, at least, duller than she wanted. She ran the whetstone down the length of the blade, pulling it away and returning to the top, and then repeating the process, with one side and then the other. She was careful with her movements, not wanting to drop either her sword or the whetstone down the cliff.

While she sharpened the blade, the dwarves started humming an unfamiliar tune. Their deep voices resonated within their throats, and it occurred to Fheon that she had never heard any of them sing such a sad melody before. They were always quite chipper.

There were no words to the song, but the air of their ballad alone sent shivers down her spine.

An old memory emerged from the deepest parts of her mind, consisting of her and her mother, Mina. They were surrounded by trees as they knelt by a flowing stream of gurgling water. The riverbed could be seen through the clear surface. Mina held her bucket beneath the surface and let the water flow into it. Fheon, as a child, only followed suit, for she had not known how to do what properly. As they were walking back to the village, Mina started humming a melody very similar to what the dwarves were humming—but perhaps more melancholic, if that was possible.

The song came to a close, and Fheon came to her senses. She had not noticed that she had closed her eyes until she opened them. Her vision was blurred with tears, and she quickly blinked them away. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand to remove any moisture that could have appeared there, and sniffed once to clear her sinuses.

The dwarves went silent, save for the two familiar voices of Thorin and Balin as they conversed amongst themselves. It seemed to be a very serious topic, but they were too far and their voices too low for Fheon to make out any coherent sentence. Her mind wandered again, until such a time that Bombur decided to divide distribute their remaining food to satisfy, even for a bit, their noisy stomachs.

No disturbance had come from the mountain yet, and Fheon held onto the hope that Bilbo's feet were as light and quick as his wit.

When she finished the turkey leg, she took a single gulp of water from her canteen and chewed on a mint leaf. She offered the herbs to the dwarves, and they agreed, some more reluctant than others. Thorin's fingers brushed against her palm as he took his share, and she met his eyes for a long moment before turning away and returning to her spot on the edge of the crag. His gaze did not linger for long, which she was both thankful and bemused for.

* * *

 

"What are you thinking about?"

Startled at the sudden presence behind her, a look of surprise crossed Fheon's face and she flinched slightly; however, she was quick to mask her emotions with her usual, cool passiveness.

"A good night's sleep," she easily lied. "A large jug of cool, fresh water and a plate of roasted pig—to share, of course."

Thorin only grunted in approval, coming to stand beside her. He did not sit, as she was, and some small part of her wished that he would.

"A whole boar would be better," he suggested softly.

Fheon half-smiled in reply. By then, her thoughts had been reeled back in, as if the sudden company forced her to focus. It had never been like that before. She thought quickly, to change the subject into something more urgent. "What do you think's happening in there right now?"

The King sighed. "It has been quiet so far, which is a good thing. Bilbo continues to look for the Arkenstone and will not stop until he does."

"What if the dragon wakes up?"

When her inquiry was only met by silence, she raised her head to look at Thorin. He would not meet her eyes. He had a determined expression on his face, but also a thin mask of cold indifference. "He will find it," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Frowning, Fheon opened her mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a deafening bellow that echoed from within the tunnels. A moment later, the ground shook, and the vibrations continued until at least five seconds.

Fheon had to dig her poorly-cut nails into the dirt to keep from falling off the edge of the cliff, and even then she almost did, if Thorin had not laid his hand on her shoulder and pulled her back. She did not know whether he had been careful not to grab her left shoulder, or if it was just a reflex of his and he had no idea exactly which shoulder he wanted to touch.

She shook her head to exterminate the foolish, careless thoughts, and returned her attention to their current situation. Glancing about, she took in the wide-eyed looks on the dwarves' faces, and felt her heartbeat quicken.

"Was that an earthquake?" said Dori in a quiet voice.

"That, my lad, was a dragon," Balin replied in grimness.

Fheon pulled herself to her feet and quickly clasped her cloak back onto her back. "Bilbo's woken him?" she said, to which Balin nodded once. Her thoughts flew by in a rapid pace. "Well, come on, we have to help him—"

"Give him more time," Thorin interrupted, and she bristled slightly.

"Time to do what?" Balin retorted. "To be killed?"

The King Under the Mountain then turned to look at the old dwarf. His eyes were accusing. "You're afraid," he muttered with a hint of anger in his tone.

"Yes, I'm afraid," Balin bit back in kind, pointing at Thorin. "I fear for you. A sickness lies upon that treasure hoard—a sickness which drove your grandfather mad!"

"I am not my grandfather."

"You are not yourself. The Thorin I know would not hesitate to go in there—"

"I will not risk this quest for the life of one  _burglar_."

Hearing him force the word through his teeth surprised Fheon. Warily, she inched away from him and closer to the entrance, where an unnatural heat was emanating from, undoubtedly heating the stone walls. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face.

"Bilbo," said Balin. "His name is Bilbo."

Thorin's form stiffened visibly. When he did not speak immediately, Fheon took her chance. "I've heard enough," she said. "Either you're coming with me, or you're not."

Not waiting for a reply, she whirled around and rushed down the stone staircase.

As she had expected, the temperature within the tunnels was almost unbearable—but she forged onward. She kept her footfalls light and her breathing quiet. Slowly, she unsheathed her sword. And then unexpectedly, a voice deeper than Thorin's was echoing down the hall, loud enough to make her flinch.

"My teeth are swords… My claws are spears… My wings are a hurricane!"

With each statement, dust fell from the ceiling as the ground shook. And because nobody else was inside the mountain aside from her, Bilbo, and Smaug—and that was definitely  _not_  Bilbo's voice—Fheon cursed under her breath and muttered to herself, "Bloody hell, I didn't know dragons could talk."

"What did you say?" Smaug suddenly hissed.

She froze on the spot—pressed against the wall and holding her breath. How could he have known where she was? Was he just to the side, where there were no walls to cover her and where the path ended? With a start, her head snapped to the side, only to find nothing there. Only the mounds of gold and jewels.

She took slow, deep breaths and forced her heartbeat to slow down. As she began to suspect that it was indeed her Smaug had been talking to, a familiar, male voice echoed throughout the chamber.

"I was just saying your reputation precedes you," said Bilbo, "O Smaug the Tyrannical. Truly. You have no equal on this earth."

Gathering her courage, Fheon ran with light feet to the pillar across from her, in the middle of the hall. It was thick enough to keep her hidden, and it seemed that Bilbo had Smaug distracted enough.

"I am almost tempted to let you take it," said Smaug. "If only to see Oakenshield suffer, watch it destroy him, watch it corrupt his heart and drive him  _mad_."

Holding her breath, Fheon poked the side of her head out from the corner of the pillar. She found Bilbo standing in the middle of a sea of gold, with the Arkenstone only five feet away. Smaug stood right in front of him—facing Fheon. Her breath hitched in her throat and she retracted immediately.

"But I think not,” the dragon continued. “I think our little game ends here. So tell me, thief: how do you choose to die?"

A loud raspy sound reached Fheon's ears, and she, frowning in confusion and heightened concern, was just about to peek out from the pillar again—perhaps to see if Bilbo had been eaten by the dragon—when a deafening roar sounded all across the chamber. Warmth enveloped her in less than two seconds. The stone against her spine heated at a fast rate.

She leapt to the side, landing in a partly kneeling position, and ran for the far wall immediately. The sound of coins clinking together and against stone followed her. In her haste, she nearly gained a concussion from hitting her head against the rock of the far wall. It was, however, not enough to disrupt her attention from the hobbit that had suddenly appeared in front of her.

She jumped back in surprise, but was in enough control of herself to bite back a scream. Her eyes moved to gaze at the ring between Bilbo's fingers and she snatched it out of his hold. "What is this?" she snapped, though not in anger. "Is this what's been keeping you invisible?"

"We don't have time!" he replied. "Look, I'll explain everything—"

"That's what you said before!"

"—when we're in a much safer situation. Now, we have to go!"

She regarded him for a brief moment before nodding and handing him back the peculiar object, quickly sheathing her sword. "You're right… come on."

She turned to lead him back the way she had come, but a torrent of fire erupted from that hallway just as she was doing so. In the blink of an eye, she redirected them and soon they were running with the treasure chamber to their left. Bilbo, though with shorter legs, was sprinting just as fast as her. They ignored the quaking beneath their feet, which was an indication of both Smaug's trailing-after-them and their equal determination to stay alive.

Fheon turned a sharp corner, having to give Bilbo's sleeve a hard tug, practically tearing his shirt. A flight of stairs came into view and the two of them nimbly sprinted up the steps. Once they reached the top, they were met with the sight of Thorin, sword in hand.

"You're alive," he exclaimed.

"Not for much longer," said Bilbo, panting heavily.

"Did you find the Arkenstone?"

"The dragon's coming—"

" _The Arkenstone_."

Bilbo's urgent stare turned into one of disbelief. He blinked. And all the while, Thorin's eyes remained distant and far-away—desperate.

"Did you find it?" he repeated. The wide-eyed, pleading look on his face made it hard for Fheon to just push him into the entrance he was blocking them from.

"We have to get out," said Bilbo. He was about to slip past him and to the tunnels that would lead them onto the cliff-top again, when Thorin placed his sword between Bilbo and the entrance. Slowly, he turned the blade until the sharp side was facing the hobbit.

"Thorin?" Bilbo managed, taking a step back as Thorin stepped forward. "Thorin!"

Fheon snapped herself out of her stupor and pushed Bilbo to stand behind her with her left hand. With the other, she unsheathed her sword and let the dull length of it touch Thorin's. "Have you gone mad?" she hissed, which was both a question and a warning.

His eyes remained cold, his stance hostile. He took another step towards them and Fheon pushed his blade away with her own. He retaliated with a yell and a swing of his blade, aiming for her neck. Pain flared up her shoulder as she pushed Bilbo back farther. She gritted her teeth and ducked, dodging Thorin's blow. She brought her sword arm up and their blades met with a loud  _clang_.

She parried his downward strike and, likewise, attacked his legs. She had hoped to swipe him off his feet and knock him out, so that they could just drag him out the mountain, but he was quicker than she'd anticipated. At the same time, a sudden glimmer shined at her eye, followed by a movement to their right. Her attention was caught.

Thorin then jumped and landed right smack on the base of her blade. She remained crouched as she glared up at him. His eyes were even steelier than before, his expression had turned smug. Fheon kept his gaze for a moment longer before flicking her eyes to the right, and letting them stay there.

Thorin soon turned to look, and they beheld the giant fire-drake that was Smaug.


	24. Smaug II

A low growl emanated from the dragon’s throat as he regarded the three of them angrily.

Fheon took a step back, pulling Bilbo with her. She saw Thorin still gaping at Smaug and, impatiently, dragged him back as well.

Cries of war echoed down the corridor to their right and the dwarves ran into the chamber. Their boldness dissipated as soon as each of them, one by one, faced the dragon. The swords in their hands started to tremble.

Bellowing monstrously, Smaug leapt and closed the distance quickly. He moved like a lizard, but with much heavier steps, therefore slower movements. Fiery cracks appeared on his stomach, like embers peeking out of ashes. He bared his teeth—and they were, indeed, as large and sharp as swords—and roared: “YOU WILL BURN!”

Then he opened his maw, and Fheon saw firelight reflecting off the back of his throat.

Yells of alarm echoed from the dwarves. Even without coherent words, Fheon understood their point. She grabbed Bilbo and together they jumped to the downward staircase behind them. Mounds of gold broke their fall and they easily slid down to the archway below, where Thorin and the others were running. She and Bilbo ran after them, completely aware of the intense heat that followed them inside.

The dragon roared again, and Fheon felt an uncomfortable pricking sensation at the back of her neck.

The crackling sound that reached her ears was indication enough. Her panicked fingers fumbled with the clasp on her neck before she was able to unfasten it. The red cloak fell from her back and to the ground, its tail end blazing with fire. The dwarves smothered the flames quickly with their boots.

“Come on,” Thorin ordered, running for the opening across the room.

Fheon shook her head, trying to clear the image of fire from her mind, and then chased after the dwarves. She made sure that she was at the very back of the Company now, instead of Bilbo.

The halls they rushed through were unfamiliar to her, though not so for Thorin. They did not question his lead, but Fheon was still wary that he would lead them back to the treasure room so he could get his precious Arkenstone. She continued quickly but attentively, alert for any sign of his betrayal that could appear at a moment’s notice.

With her sword at hand, only then did she notice that she had left her bow and quiver behind, before she had entered the mountain after Bilbo.

Their path continued through an archway and into a long chamber. Its height seemed similar to the treasure room’s, from where they stood. Thorin halted by the archway and took a second to shush the Company, before proceeding to peek into the chamber with slow, cautious movements.

No sign of danger revealed itself, and Dori lightly squeezed Thorin’s arm. “We’ve given him the slip,” he whispered.

“No,” Dwalin murmured. “He’s too cunning for that.”

“Where to now?” said Bilbo.

“The western guardroom,” said Thorin. “There may be a way out.”

Balin shook his head and argued softly, “It’s too high. There’s no chance that way.”

“It’s our only chance. We have to try.”

Without another word, Thorin turned and once more peeked into the chamber before them. He held out a finger and looked at them pointedly, as if saying, _“Move quietly if you don’t want to die.”_

They continued down the path, their walking as light as could be. Fheon remained at the back of the group, but she soon grew uncertain as to whether it was a good or bad idea. Before she could ponder on it for longer, something shiny fell into view.

Her breath hitched in her throat. The coin landed on the stone in front of Bilbo. A metallic noise rang out as soon as it touched the floor. In the silence, it was deafening.

The Company froze on their places. They turned to Bilbo, who was grappling at his pockets for any coin that could have fallen out of it. It was possible a coin had stuck to him during his previous encounter with Smaug. But then a faint sound of wind reached their ears, like free air inside something hollow.

A second coin fell to the ground; then another; and none of them were coming from Bilbo. They were coming from something higher above them.

Fheon held her breath and looked up to find Smaug’s stomach hovering several yards over their heads, littered with coins, some of which continued falling. He crawled among the stone pillars, silent but deadly, searching for the intruders who quivered just beneath him.

Why couldn’t he smell them out? As the Company forged onward, even quieter than before, Fheon knew that the dragon’s current lapse in smell was a good thing.

Without stopping, they reached the other side of the chamber and were quick to return to the corridors, where the dragon would not see them easily. As soon as they reached this, they resumed running.

“Stay close,” said Thorin, turning a corner and leading them into a musky-smelling room.

Two torches were propped on either side of the room, covered in cobwebs and dust. The age of the room was evident, as it was in other parts of the castle. But for some reason, the walls were lined with cracks, giving the area a grimmer atmosphere. Fheon saw why when she strolled through the doorway.

She had prepared herself for an exit, albeit how irrational the possibility was. She had also prepared herself for a dead-end, or a trap—she had not prepared herself for the sea of bodies waiting at the end of the room.

They were far too desiccated for Fheon to be able to make out their faces, but by their wide bodies and short statures, they were undoubtedly dwarves. Some were dressed in armor, others in simple rags. Men, women… children. Rubble of stone surrounded them, further proving the fact that they had been here ever since Smaug took the mountain.

“That’s it, then,” said Dwalin, who remained by the archway. “There’s no way out.” His eyes were on the doorway across the room, where stone and wooden debris piled up on top of each other, blocking them from the corridor of escape on the other side.

“The last of our kin,” Balin stated. “They must have come here, hoping beyond hope.” Fheon caught sight of a small bundle cradled in a woman’s arms, and looked away immediately. Balin continued in a crestfallen voice. “We could try to reach the mines. We might last a few days.”

Fheon refused to share in their hopelessness. It would have been hypocritical for her to do so, for she remembered what she had told Thorin when he had given up on the keyhole. So she repeated the words to herself, out loud, in hopes that the Company’s spirits would be lifted: “You cannot lose hope, for when you have lost hope, you have lost yourself.” She inhaled shakily. “And when things are dire… and bleak…”

“There is always hope.”

She met Thorin’s eyes; he had been the one to finish her statement for her. He acknowledged her with a nod, and she did the same.

“We will not die like this—cowering, clawing for breath.” he said, speaking to the dwarves now. “We make for the forges.”

“He’ll see us,” said Dwalin, “Sure as death.”

“Not if we split up.”

Then Balin stepped forward and said in a choked murmur, “Thorin, we’ll never make it.”

“Some of us might. Lead _him_ to the forges. We kill the dragon,” said the King. A very determined look crept into his eyes. “If this is to end in fire, then we will all burn together!”

His words emboldened the Company to extraordinary lengths. They did not dare to cheer and raise their swords, but only nodded their approval. The fires in their eyes were rekindled.

“Bilbo, Balin, you’re with me,” said Thorin. “Bombur, Ori, Dori—go together from the south hall. Gloin, Fheon, Bifur—take the west. Dwalin, Nori, you go from the east. Remember: to the forges.”

Fheon and Dwalin dutifully stepped aside to let Thorin back out of the guardroom. The Dwarf King’s eyes met the Ranger’s before they were running again.

Gloin ran ahead of Fheon and Bifur. Mere seconds after the Company had broken rank, the voice of Smaug filled the chamber once more. “Flee. Flee! Run for your lives. There is nowhere to hide.”

“Behind you!” Dori shouted at the dragon. “Come on!”

The ground shook with tremors as Smaug gave chase to Dori’s group. But then another dwarf’s voice echoed down the chamber.

“Hey, you!” Dwalin bellowed. “HERE!”

The dragon turned to him and Nori just as Fheon’s group reached an archway. Without stopping, Gloin ran down the open corridor. Fheon thundered after him, facing sideways slightly as she swung her sword over her head.

“Here, you ugly lizard!” she yelled.

As expected, Smaug turned to them and bared his teeth. The corridor continued beneath a wide expanse of rock. They had to keep moving. Gloin crouched forward, as did Bifur. The ground quaked once more beneath Fheon’s feet, nearly making her fall off the corridor.

The air around her seemed to become thicker and she felt a heavy tugging sensation, as if something was pulling her in. She quickened her pace. Her spine scraped against the rough rock above her several times, making the chainmail screech. She and Bifur and Gloin turned a corner just as sudden light erupted from behind them.

The heat from Smaug’s fire followed them, seeming to seep into their feet. Alarmed, Fheon glanced down and found the stone they were running on had fiery cracks running through it. The dwarves ahead of her started hopping to keep from burning their boots.

“Keep running!” she shouted.

Heat seared the bare skin on her face and hands. Nevertheless, she jumped off the edge of the overhang, as Gloin and Bifur had done. It was a miracle she landed on one of the iron chutes at all. She managed to stay on her right shoulder as she slid down the shaft, and then she caught sight of the mining cart waiting below. Thinking quickly, she steeled her knees and managed to fall on her feet.

She inched deeper into the cart and warily anticipated the dragon’s next move.

Nothing happened.

Panting heavily, Fheon hissed, “What now?”

“We must wait for them to activate the machines,” said Gloin.

“And exactly how long will that take?”

As if on cue, the roar of the dragon echoed throughout the chamber. It was distant. Resonances of the voices of yelling dwarves reached her ears.

The heat was still intense as ever. Orange light reflected off the smooth stone of a gap about a hundred yards away. Fheon guessed that the carts were meant to go there, to the forges. She wiped the sweat that had accumulated on her face just as a scraping noise reverberated down the canyon, accompanied by Smaug’s snarls and roaring.

There came a gruff bellow from the direction of the forges—Thorin. Anxious, Fheon cursed under her breath and stood, keeping her knees bent so that she would not fall off the cart. Then, there was the familiar but misplaced sound of rushing water. Smaug’s roars were deafening, even from so far. An odd creaking began from overhead.

“They’ve done it,” Bifur muttered.

Fheon nearly fell over as the mining cart abruptly began to move in the direction of the forges. She settled back down to the bottom of the cart, gripping the sides as it rocked back and forth from the force of the pull. Her stomach churned uncomfortably.

The cart mechanism moved faster than she had expected. Soon, they were looking down at the forges, where fire seemed to be billowing from every corner of the chamber in large, enforced containers. Fheon glanced down and found that it was not fire within the containers, but seas of gold. Melted gold. It shimmered and glistened with every little wave. It was hot enough for Fheon to pull her head back so that her mining cart caught most of the heat.

She caught sight of the moving figure of Smaug from the corner of her eye. They were high enough to be deemed taller than him, if he was standing on his four feet. The look on his face was deadly.

The sound of breaking glass echoed throughout the chamber. A large bright light exploded at the side of the dragon’s head, and then another. It did not seem to hurt him, only irritate him more.

Fheon noticed the small mass of dwarves standing at the left side of Smaug. They threw what seemed to be jars at the dragon, and these jars broke to burst into blue light. A snarl ripped through Smaug’s throat.

It came to Fheon’s attention that the dragon was now directly beneath them. But more mining carts were also beneath them, filled with green stones. They were sure to be heavy.

Instinctively, she came to stand once more and leaned over the edge of her mining cart. She unsheathed her sword and cut the ropes beneath them quickly, before retracting so as to not fall over. A satisfying crumbling sound echoed from below, followed by a screech from Smaug. She glanced sideways and found an approving grin on Bifur’s face. It surprised her enough to make her blink.

And then something appeared in front of Fheon’s mining cart: the snout of the dragon.

Smaug twisted his neck once and broke the cables that were keeping the carts aloft. Fheon wrapped her fingers around the edge of her cart. She forced her throat to close and bit back the scream that threatened to emerge. The direction of their fall was altered when they hit the blunt spikes on Smaug’s back. They resumed falling sideways.

It was hard for Fheon to think past the fierce tugging sensation in her gut. She glanced down to see which side of her cart was facing the ground, and then twisted in midair. A loud _clang_ reached her ears as their fall came to a halt, and she landed on her right shoulder. Their velocity had not been enough to give them any broken bones. The tumble from the dragon’s spine had assured that.

She immediately regained her footing and then helped Bifur and Gloin onto their feet. To their right, Smaug continued thrashing about, trying to free himself from the hold of the cable-wires.

Fheon jumped across the narrow river of molten gold, hearing Thorin yell, “Lead him to the Gallery of the Kings!”

“Am I supposed to know where the bloody hell that is?” she growled as debris continued falling all around them.

Out of nowhere, Thorin came running into view, pushing a wheelbarrow in front of him as he loosed a cry of defiance. He ran straight for Smaug, dodging the beast’s claws. Fheon stared after him in exasperation, and then Gloin was pulling her towards a staircase which she only assumed led to the Gallery of the Kings. Smaug’s terrible cries of anger followed them down the steps.

Once again, she let the dwarves lead her down unfamiliar corridors and twisting tunnels; until finally, they reached a massive hallway. The walls were lined with tapestries as tall as the towers from Lake-town. Fheon trailed the dwarves to the end of the hall, where she noticed Thorin standing atop a towering stone statue that emitted heat.

“To the back,” he ordered. “Take the chains!”

Fheon was pushed up the ladders and told by Dwalin to stay with Bombur. The round, orange-haired dwarf led her up two more ladders before they took their places by a large black chain. Fheon reached forward to grab it and traced it to a large shackle, which encircled the stone statue Thorin was on.

“We tug on this?” she asked, to which Bombur nodded vigorously. He stood in front of her and took the part of the chain that was closer to the shackles; she remained behind him to add whatever more power he needed.

Glancing around, she saw the dwarves paired with each other—some with two, some with three—but all about to do the same thing. A scowl of determination crossed her face, and she tightened her grip on the chain.

Just as she did, the pattering sound of footsteps reached her ears. She and Bombur were at one side of the statue, and so they were able to see the tiny figure of Bilbo running into the hall.

Suddenly, the wall behind him crumbled to pieces. The stone separated to reveal Smaug, eyes blazing and teeth bared. Fheon kept her eyes on Bilbo and watched as a tapestry fell gently onto him, cloaking him from view of the dragon. She just hoped he would not be stepped on.

“You think you can deceive me, _barrel-rider_?” Smaug demanded. “You have come from Lake-town. This is some sordid scheme hatched between these filthy dwarves and those miserable tub-trading Lakemen. Those sniveling cowards, with their long bows and Black Arrows! Perhaps it is time I paid them a visit.”

Fheon’s heart dropped in dismay. “No…”

The dragon turned and starting making for the main entrance, which was just another corridor away. Bilbo pulled out from beneath the tapestry “This isn’t their fault,” he said. “WAIT! You cannot go to Lake-town!”

Smaug stopped at this, and when he next spoke, he seemed to be purring. “You care about them, do you?” he said. “Good. Then you can watch them _die_.”

A fiery sort of fortitude flared up from Fheon’s chest. She would not let the men of the lake, or her brother, die a death of fire.

“OI!” she bellowed, practically scraping her throat. She bared her teeth and ground out as loud as she could, “Here, you oversized worm!”

Some sense of satisfaction flowed through her as the dragon stopped in his tracks. He turned, slowly, and narrowed his eyes at her. She returned his glare with her own. And then he turned his attention to the figure standing on the statue in front of him, and his eyes narrowed into orange slits. “You.”

“I am taking back what you stole,” boldly said Thorin.

Smaug advanced at him with slow, daring steps. “You will take _nothing_ from me, dwarf. I laid low your warriors of old. I instilled terror in the hearts of Men!” And then he was close enough that Fheon could see the detailed texture of his stomach. Fire made his belly ripple with cracks of orange. “ _I_ am King Under the Mountain.”

“This is not your kingdom,” Thorin retorted. “These are _dwarf_ -lands. This is _dwarf_ -gold. And we will have our revenge.”

Fheon noticed Bombur’s hands tighten around the chain as Thorin bellowed something in Khuzdul. The first shackle at the top of the stone statue broke apart, followed by the one below it as Dwalin and Nori tugged. The time came for the third one and Fheon heaved at the chain with all her might. A grunt of exertion escaped her lips. Bombur was quiet. And then their shackle broke apart, quickly shadowed by the rest.

The stone statue crumbled. Fheon caught sight of Thorin swinging from a chain, away from danger. The stone walls and iron shackles fell away, revealing the golden statue of a dwarf standing before them. Her pupils dilated and she looked away. Confusion settled over her like the heat arising from the molten-gold statue, searing her skin and her raw throat. The gold had not yet settled, for sure, but Smaug did not seem to know, or he simply did not mind.

Hums of approval resonated in his throat, and then a sigh of awe. His eyes grew wide as he stared at the statue. He did not even have lips, but Fheon was positive that he was smiling.

For several seconds, all was still. Smaug remained where he was, enraptured. Thorin and the dwarves seemed to be holding their breaths, while Fheon slowly descended into dread when she realized just exactly what Thorin had been planning all along.

Before she could say a word, streams of gold started spurting from multiple places on the statue. Slowly, the gold reverted back to its liquid state.

Smaug’s expression was one of terror as the shimmering rivers pooled at his feet. He started backing away. The molten gold sizzled as they touched his cool claws, but no screams of pain came from the dragon. Only a cry of surprise as he fell and the sea of gold overcame him.

The glittering ocean was still for a few moments, save for a few ripples here and there. A soft sigh escaped Bombur, perhaps of relief. But Fheon knew what was going to happen.

In a splash of gold, Smaug reappeared from beneath the molten gold. The liquids clung to him as he thrashed about. Fheon had to bring her armored arms up to keep from having her face melted off. Slowly but surely, Smaug made his way to the front entrance of the mountain.

“Revenge? _REVENGE_?” he bellowed. “I WILL SHOW YOU REVENGE!”

Then he took a running start, and in seconds, had broken through the front walls of Erebor; on his way to Esgaroth, where the buildings would turn to ash and sink beneath the burning lake.

On his way to Kili, Fili, Oin, Sigrid, Tilda, Bain, and Bard. On his way to Elijah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the events of The Desolation of Smaug. In the next chapter, we'll be starting up on Battle of the Five Armies.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend the song "Poor Man's Son" by Noah Gunderson for this chapter.
> 
> P.S. I still don't own that Hope quote. Credit where credit is due.

BILBO, BEING the one on the ground, was the first to take off for the entrance.

As he ran to get a glimpse of the dragon that was flying for Lake-town, Fheon hastily clambered down the flights of ladders and followed after the hobbit. Her fingers shook with her slowly-growing panic. She could not hope to follow suit after Bilbo’s light feet, instead garnering several scratches on her pants and bruises on her legs and elbows as she scrambled onto the debris of the front entrance.

Just before the slope of the mountain, the rubble ended. This was where Bilbo waited for her, staring in horror at the dark figure of Smaug.

The sting offered by her newly-acquired scratches did nothing to distract Fheon. Her lungs would not cooperate. Every breath she took was short and shallow. Her heart pounded within her chest painfully fast, giving her the feeling of a dragon’s claws raking skin and tearing out chunks of her flesh.

“What have we done?” said Bilbo in a strangled whisper.

Fheon could not reply and neither did she find the need to. Her mind had become disorderly, her thoughts a tangled mess of everything she wanted to do, everything she wanted to say, yet was not being given the opportunity to. She felt like clawing at her throat, if only to get a single wisp of air out. She felt like flying, so she could halt the dragon Smaug in his flight and stab him in the eye, for he had no armor to protect him there. Or she could fly to Lake-town and save her brother.

Yes, Elijah was there; along with Fili, Oin, Bofur, and an injured Kili. The dwarves had dealt with a dragon before—they had escaped. Surely they could do it again, with an extra member. But the people of Esgaroth… what was to happen to them?

Just as quickly, her hopes were diminished by the pessimistic possibilities. They weighed down on her just like how Smaug gathered the wind beneath his wings and flew. With every second that passed, he got closer and closer to the town on the lake. It would not take him an hour before reaching it.

The sound of shifting rubble registered to Fheon, and then someone was pulling gently at her arm. She turned her head to find that it was Bombur, accompanied by Bifur, Balin, Dori, and Nori.

“The rest have gone to the overhang,” said Balin, who was the one gripping her arm. “You could come with us, if you like.”

It was Bilbo who answered. “Why would we—” But then he cut himself off as the answer dawned on him, just as it had Fheon: _A better view._

“We have to help them,” she reasoned. “Elijah’s down there.”

“Aye, so are Fili, Kili, Oin and Bifur.” Balin shook his head. “We couldn’t help them even if we wanted to, lass. It would be too late.”

Then she noticed Thorin standing at the very back of the small group, and she felt something snap inside her.

“You’re a fool!” she screamed at him. “ _That_ was your plan? To bury him beneath molten gold?”

Even from afar, she saw the familiar expression of anger cross his face. “It would have worked, had the gold been hotter—”

“Fire _cannot_ kill a dragon! Don’t you know that?”

She had not noticed that her feet were carrying her towards the King until Nori stopped her by grabbing her elbow. Thorin glared at her, and she returned his gaze with equal spite, but in the end it was he who turned around. Nori and Balin started tugging at her arm, and she let them pull her away.

Her own words rang in her ears as Balin and the others led her back into the mountain, where they rushed to the overhang. “Hope,” she muttered to herself. “Lose it, you lose yourself. There is always hope. Always…”

 

_You cannot lose hope._

They arrived at the overhang just as Smaug loosed a torrent of fire that engulfed a quarter of Lake-town.

By then, Fheon had gotten some of her self-possession back. With every flap of the dragon’s wings, she searched for something to hope for. She hoped for Elijah’s safety. Kili’s, Fili’s, Oin’s, and Bofur’s. Bard’s, Sigrid’s, Tilda’s, and Bain’s. The safety of the people of Esgaroth, even though she knew that more than half would fall to the flames, if they were not crushed by the falling ruins of their own houses. She hoped for Smaug’s demise. Perhaps, as impossible as it was, someone in Lake-town had kept hidden a Black Arrow somewhere.

Smaug circled back and descended, opening his maw to release a single, continuous deluge that created a second line of fire on the circle on the lake that was Esgaroth.

As far as the town was from where she stood, Fheon could have sworn that she heard the shrill cries of a dying man. It could have been Elijah. A shiver ran down her spine. She crossed her arms and waited for her quaking to cease. _He is alive…_ Seconds later, the roar of the dragon pierced the air as he burned down another quarter of the town.

“Poor souls,” Balin muttered. Ori, who sat on the ground facing away from the fiery nightmare, sniffled as a tear strayed down his cheek. Nori placed his hand on his shoulder, but the young dwarf’s weeping continued.

Barely half an hour passed before the entirety of Esgaroth was completely consumed in dragon fire.

Fheon could imagine herself there instead of Elijah—aboard a boat and headed for open water, if she still had her wits about her. She could imagine the searing heat of the fire burning her skin, the beads of sweat accumulating all across her body because of it. She could imagine how difficult it must be to breathe because of the smoke, because she remembered how it had been during Azog’s attack on her village. How he had burned everything to the ground and threw her to the fire, and how Elijah had pulled her out but not before the burning tongues had lapped at the skin on her shoulder.

She could imagine Elijah in the same situation: injured, catching fire… He hoped he still had the audacity to jump into the lake and be done with it.

She noticed Smaug disappear from the sky above Lake-town. Had he circled back to make for Erebor once more? Soon, however, she caught sight of the spikes on his back. He had landed on the town, and was walking. His familiar rough voice echoed across the lake, incomprehensible. Fheon started wondering who he was talking to, and why.

Then, he disappeared from view all together. She leaned forward in heated curiosity, and her eyes widened when, suddenly, the dragon reappeared from within the ruins of the town. She noticed the odd way he was flapping his wings, and how his long, angular neck was stretched out, and how his roaring was just as deafening as before… albeit sounding a bit pained.

Her heart’s rapid thumping skipped a beat as soon as she saw him start falling from the sky.

His wings hung limply at his sides, and his body seemed lifeless. Soon he landed in the middle of the ruins of Esgaroth, lost from view. His weight alone was enough to cause the ground to quake strongly enough to reach Erebor.

Ori’s ears perked up and he raised his head. “What was that? What happened?” He was on his feet in seconds.

“It fell,” Bilbo replied from beside Fheon. “I-I saw it.”

The dwarves started shuffling to get a good look of the burning town. Smoke billowed continuously from the lighted buildings, but Smaug did not rise again.

“He’s dead,” said Bilbo in a disbelieving whisper. “Smaug is dead!”

Fheon allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“By my beard, I think he’s right!” Gloin exclaimed, and then pointed at the sky, where more than a dozen small, black figures were veering for Erebor. “Look there! The Ravens of Erebor are returning to the Mountain.”

Balin nodded. “Aye, word will spread. Before long, every soul in Middle-Earth will know the dragon is dead.”

Cheers of jubilee erupted from the dwarves surrounding her. Fheon did not join in their laughter. So far, only one of her wishes had been fulfilled, yet it was not the one she felt most desperate about.

 

_For when you have lost hope, you have lost yourself._

Dawn came, and Thorin came to the conclusion that they still needed to hunt for sustenance. The food within the Mountain had long become spoiled, and if not spoiled then destroyed by Smaug.

Fheon volunteered for the job, requesting that she could bring Ori with her, with the simple explanation: “He’s handy with a slingshot.”

Thorin granted his permission—far too hastily, she noticed. He then brought the rest of the Company to the treasure room, no doubt start the search for the Arkenstone. The last she had seen it was when she first laid eyes on Smaug.

She had retrieved her bow hours before, but it remained worth nothing to her considering her shoulder. Nevertheless, she still looped it and her quiver over her shoulder, just in case. Primarily armed with her sword, and Ori with his slingshot, they began their journey back down to the wilds of the mountain.

Another convenience for having Ori with her was that he knew the way back to Erebor. Not that she had easily forgotten the path, but she did not want to prioritize herself with remembering. Her mind was astray for an entirely different reason: an arrival. More specifically, the arrival of the rest of their Company.

The animals were just as cautious as before, but surprisingly enough, Ori was light on his feet. He kept Fheon from the arduous task of having to chase down their meat.

Two hours later, four fat wild turkeys hung from Ori’s belt, and it was a miracle he was still walking so straight. Fheon had a big horn sheep over her good shoulder, its blood staining her chainmail. She did her best to ignore the stench as she followed Ori back up to Erebor.

It was then a familiar voice reached her ears, rambling about being able to devour a whole mountain lion.

Fheon stopped in her tracks, as did Ori, and soon four familiar faces appeared from the small hill to their right.

“Fili!” Ori exclaimed, and all but threw himself to the blonde dwarf.

“Ori!” said Kili, and then regarded Fheon with confused eyes. “Fheon?”

“Kili,” she replied. “Fili—”

“Fheon!” Bofur cut her off with an abrupt hug, and then, “Ori!”

“Bofur!” said Ori.

“Oin,” Fheon greeted.

“Fheon,” he replied in kind, and then was embraced by Ori, who seemed to be enjoying the simple pleasantries most.

Fheon, however, was his complete opposite. She handed the lifeless big horn sheep over to Fili and then questioned them immediately: “Where is my brother?” To her dismay, they only shared grim glances with each other. So in a louder voice, she demanded, “ _Where is he_?”

“He was on the boat with us, lass,” said Bofur. “Or, at least, he had been. He took off with Bain to help Bard slay the dragon. And they did! They shot him with a Black Arrow—”

“Where are they now—the survivors?”

“On the western shore.” He pointed to the west, and then his expression turned into one of deep sorrow. “We couldn’t find him anywhere there, Fheon—”

“He’s alive,” she interrupted and then motioned down the slope. “Is your boat still down there?”

“Aye, but—”

“If he survived,” said Fili, “you’ll find him with the people of Lake-town.”

Fheon caught him throw a warning look to Bofur, and narrowed her eyes at his use of the word _if_.

“Take the game back to Erebor,” she told them. “The dwarves are hungry.” She turned and quickly started jogging down the mountain, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon.”

No reply came from the dwarves. In her mind, a frantic mantra had taken hold of her thoughts: _He lives. He lives. He lives._

 

_So remember this…_

 

Because of her one useless arm, it took her nearly four hours to reach the western shore. The slight upsurge of the water did not help, though she guessed it was because of the beams and roofs and foundations at Lake-town that were still falling into the lake.

Nevertheless, after what seemed like a whole day, she finally reached the shore and was met with the sight of about a hundred survivors. Her heart clenched. Considering how packed Esgaroth had been, a hundred was not a very good ratio.

Almost a quarter of them were wounded, and another quarter were women. The half that was left uninjured bustled about in the water, sifting through the waves for anything salvageable. Fheon docked the boat east of the site, where there weren’t much people. Her reasons were not because they were suspicious of them—for why would they steal a boat? Where would they go? She simply did not want to disturb them; on the shore of the site, at least a dozen men, women, and children were mourning their dead.

So she docked her boat and stepped onto the thin strip of land. The soles of her boots squelched as they sunk into the mud and blood. Eventually, a familiar face came into view… and Fheon was not sure whether she should approach or turn around and walk away, for it was not a very friendly face.

“You,” said the auburn-haired she-elf. “You helped the dwarves escape—”

“Since we’ve already reclaimed the mountain and there’s nothing more you can do about it—and I’m in a bit of a rush—I’ll tell you my name, you tell me yours, and I’ll be on my way,” Fheon interrupted smoothly. “We are no longer enemies. This I can tell you for certain.”

The elf regarded her with narrow eyes for a long moment, before saying, “I am Tauriel, captain of the guard for King Thranduil.”

“And I am Fheon,” Fheon responded in kind, before striding right past her to continue her search.

“I assume you’re looking for your brother.”

She stopped in her tracks immediately. Still not facing the elf, she asked, “Have you seen him?”

“I was with him and the dwarves when they escaped on a boat,” said Tauriel, and Fheon was too distracted to think about _why_ she was with the dwarves. “But when the boy, Bain, took off to help his father, your brother followed him.” She pointed to the right, to someone standing by the shore. “He should have been the last one to see your brother. You can ask him.”

Fheon almost did not want to, for she noticed the sad, almost sympathetic tone in Tauriel’s voice. The elf would not have gained anything from lying to her.

Steeling herself, Fheon marched up to Bard, who was helping an old woman out of the water. Upon seeing her, the bargeman’s eyes widened.

“Fheon,” he said, surprise clear on his face. “What are you—?”

“Where is Elijah?” she demanded, and then allowed a detached expression onto her features. “Answer me quickly, bargeman. My patience runs thin.”

She watched with anxiety and trembling hands as he handed the old woman to what Fheon assumed was her family, all the while never looking away from her. His eyes were intense, but not with affection. Fheon would never have seen it without the crease on his forehead, or his pursed lips, or the way he kept shuffling on his feet. Even before he could say anything about Elijah, the cold claw of fear had already gripped her heart.

He hesitated for another moment before speaking. “Your brother… he is dead, Fheon.”

“Do not jest,” she snapped. “Everyone says that he was with you and your son when you killed Smaug. So I’ll say it again: _where is he?_ ”

“He _fell_ ,” said Bard. “He went with Bain to retrieve the Black Arrow… but at the tower, when they were giving it to me, Smaug flew by us and completely destroyed the fortifications. They were just dangling off the edge and he threw Bain to me first. I tried to save him. I did… and then his hand got cut.” He shook his head. “Before he fell, he insisted I tell you something—”

“No.” Fheon cut him off before he could say more. The winded feeling had returned. She scowled at the ground and tried to control her thoughts. _Hope… He did not fall…_ At least _find something to remember him by—_ “You lie,” she hissed at Bard. “He was one of the Dunedain. He knew how to swim. He would not have drowned.”

“From how far up we were and considering the amount of debris in the water…” The bargeman trailed off, though he did not to finish in order for Fheon to understand what he was trying to say.

Her eyes stung as tears threatened to spill forth, something she could not allow. Blinking rapidly, she looked away from Bard and searched the crowd with wild eyes. _Old women, old men, young women, young men, babies, mothers, fathers…_

She searched for the problematic tuft of hair that stood up at the back of his head, the familiar copper hue of his skin that was the same as hers. His billowing, evergreen cloak… _Old women, old men, young women, young men, babies, mothers, fathers…_ No Elijah.

“I offer my condolences, Fheon,” Bard said from behind her. “You will not find him here. His body never washed up—”

“He’s not _dead_!”

“There is only one other place to look.”

Knowingly, Fheon turned and met the bargeman’s sad gaze. “I am allowed?”

He nodded. “Yes, but it’ll be dangerous. You’re welcome to any of our boats, though.”

He had not even finished speaking yet before she was walking back to her boat in long strides. Using her stronger legs, she kicked it back into the water and, ignoring the protests of her muscles, rowed to the ashen ruins of Esgaroth.

_When things are dire and bleak…_

The air still strongly smelled of fire and smoke. Fheon was careful not to wade into the more narrow canals, for the creaking beams above could still easily decapitate her. With her paddle and seldom with her own hands, she pushed the floating debris away from her boat; she did not want to get stuck.

Wreckage was not the only floating things she had to worry about. As determined as she was to find her brother still alive, holding onto a beam to keep afloat, it was difficult to have to look at the faces of the corpses she passed by. She checked if any of them were breathing, and none of them ever were.

A large beam crashed into the water in front of her. She was forced to switch routes, but ultimately reached the edge of the town anyway, with still no sign of her brother. Panic had long begun to swell inside her chest, eliciting from her sobs that tore past her throat. Yet no tears came.

She called for her brother, desperate for an answer. She did not care if he was injured, or if his legs had been flattened beneath a slab of wood, or if he had been splintered. He would answer her so she could save him.

It was three hours of her exploring the wreckage of the town. She had succeeded in going through all the passageways twice. If Bard’s story was correct and Elijah had indeed fallen into the water, then he would not have been buried beneath the wooden rubble. He would have sunk to the bottom of the lake at the second hour of his death.

Finally, the tears came, rushing down her face. Streams of heartbreak and sorrow. Her shoulders shook with the strength of her woe, rocking the boat back and forth. She was in open-water, now. No harm would come to her unless brought forth by her own hands.

She grieved for Elijah. He who had protected her, loved her, and favored her above all else. He who had stolen her back from the very clutches of death but could not do the same for their sister, or their parents. He who had shared in her pain and irritation whenever a new wound appeared on her body.

She lamented the young man who had once told her that older stars were the unmoving ones and younger ones were the ones that roamed, and that winking was the star-language—something she had thought was so stupid, she’d told him so, but after a while she had come to stare up at the night sky, wondering if they was being looked down upon, protected.

Something sprung forth from the deep parts of her mind—a memory: her and Elijah standing in the shadows. They had just come across the Company and were offered a place in their ranks. Elijah had finally succeeded in wheedling her acceptance.

_Fheon muttered in distaste, “If I die, I’m coming back to drag you with me.”_

_He was still grinning. “And what happens if I die?”_

_She rolled her eyes. “Highly doubtful. I would die first trying to save your arse. This_ is _a dragon we’re dealing with.”_

A single, high-pitched wail echoed across the water. She hadn’t known it was hers, at the time. She dug her fingernails into her hauberk, and they broke and cracked against the material, and thin streams of blood flowed through the chainmail.

In time, however, her tears ran dry and she grew too exhausted to keep sobbing. Her fingers ached and stung, but she took hold of the paddle and made way for Erebor once more.

She did not want to return to the western shore, fearing that, if she laid eyes on the survivors, she would start to despise them for making it out alive when her brother did not. There was no one there for her to speak with anyway. Bard was not plaintive enough for any of his daughters to have died. His family was alive, which was more than Fheon could say for herself.

_She was alone._

> _And as the world comes to an end  
>  I'll be here to hold your hand  
>  Because you're my king and I'm your lionheart_


	26. Erebor I

There was nothing quite as torturous as knowing that with every ripple Fheon made through the water with the paddle, she got farther and farther away from Elijah… or, rather, Elijah’s body.

It was all the same prospect to her; she had nothing to remember him by. She did not believe that he would live on through memory. Memories were soon forgotten, and the more it passed onto different generations, the less important it became. In a century or so, Elijah would be known as nothing more but the Ranger who saved the son of Smaug’s killer—except to Fheon who would, of course, be dead. But perhaps he could mean more to the next generations of their family: the brother of the last survivor of Evendim.

With a heavy heart, Fheon docked the boat and stepped onto the shores of Erebor.

The sun had disappeared from the sky by then. Stars twinkled overhead but Fheon refused to look at them, fearing that the sight would remind her of her brother’s seemingly-logical musings about them. The lacerations on her heart were still too raw. She would have continued on to Erebor until morning, but the ache in her heels soon grew too much to bear.

Gritting through the pain, she walked across the familiar narrow desert, all but emptying her water canteen. She kept walking until she reached a place suitable enough to rest in: a rock formation similar to the one they had come across when they were on their way to Mirkwood.

Said journey seemed like it had happened ages ago, but not even a fortnight had passed since then.

Fheon rested there for a few minutes, composing herself, and then stood up. She took note of her camp’s location and then went off to find a stream. If memory served her, there was supposed to be a source of freshwater somewhere near where she was. She wouldn’t bother to hunt that night.

The stream was a bit over ten minutes away. Fheon filled her canteen with the cool water, and in an effort not to dirty the stream, she hiked her pants up and poured the water from her canteen onto her legs. The razor thin cuts on her legs had closed hours ago, which made her worry about infections.

After pondering on it, she poured water onto her fingertips and rubbed the cuts until the tender new skin tore open again. Ignoring the sting, she cleaned the scratches with water until she was satisfied. Then, she refilled the canteen again and started cleaning herself.

She stripped until she was only in her pants and chest wrapping. After carefully laying down her tunic, gambeson and hauberk onto a dry rock, she rubbed herself clean with only her hands— arms, chest, neck, face. The cool water brought her back into an alert state of mind, chilling her to the bone.

A thought occurred to her and she spilled water onto her shoulder brace until it was completely drenched. The night air brought the relief she had wanted for her shoulder, but also made her teeth clatter.

Giving her limbs a hasty shake, she slipped her gambeson back on, not bothering with her tunic because it had become too dirty to wear. She wore her hauberk again as well, as a means of warmth. Already the wetness of her shoulder brace was soaking through her clothing, but she paid it no heed.

Another half minute passed as she filled her canteen and then drank from the stream until her stomach could hold no more. Once she was finished, she returned the canteen to one of the clasps on her belt, turned around, and made her way back to camp.

The walk seemed longer this time, only because she was not in such a rush. Her pace was slower, her strides shorter, but her mind was no less attentive. She kept a watchful eye for bears or any other predators. It was dark and they no doubt saw her as just another source of food, perhaps to feed their cubs, if they had any, or the rest of their family—

Fheon forced her mind to clear and started thinking about another wholly different topic. She settled for the problem that was her shoulder.

An unhappy scowl eased onto her face as she tried turning her left arm in a corkscrew motion, which only resulted in a slow-growing pain that started near her chest. She let her arm dangle beside her like a limp noodle.

Something flitted into view from the corner of her eye. In the span of a second, she had jumped back and pulled her sword out of the sheath.

The sound of the blade sliding against the scabbard pierced through the silence, startling the boar and making it squeal, right before it thundered into the darkness. Fheon stared after it in both amusement and surprise.

Sheathing her sword once more, the grey hide of the animal reminded her of Gandalf’s billowing robes. And then at the thought of Gandalf, she remembered that he was a wizard, and wizards had the capacity to use their magic to heal. Her injury was not a very severe one. He had rectified Thorin’s injuries when the dwarf had been thrown about like a ragdoll by Azog, and his physical state then had been far worse. Surely he could easily heal a minor fracture.

Ultimately, the towering figures of the formation of boulders came into view. Fheon jogged up to it and sat down on the dry ground, leaning against the side of the rock with her sword on her lap. With all her will, she focused on her surroundings and not on the memories that threatened to swallow her whole.

As the night progressed, more and more animal cries reached her ears. Be it the screech of a hawk or an eagle, the grunting of a nearby bear, or the soft clopping of a big horn sheep’s hooves. Nothing had threatened Fheon so far. Several had approached her, but she remembered the words of Hiram when they had once encountered a black bear and her cub.

It was during their later years as Rangers, and they were supposed to meet someone at Bree. The bear had appeared hostile, but Hiram softly instructed that they stay still and to calm their breathing. Once they did, the bear blinked—almost as if it realized that they meant no harm—and then lumbered away with her cub.

So throughout the night, Fheon made it a point to keep her heartbeat steady, and her breathing slow and calm. Whenever a bear would come near her site, she would look away and train her eyes on the ground until they walked away. But when a coyote neared, she would pull one or two blackberries out of her pocket and roll the fruit towards the animal. Ultimately, the coyote would completely ignore the berries and walk away. She was not sure whether she had pleased it or annoyed it, but she knew almost nothing about coyotes. The Rangers did not often camp in mountains.

It was lucky that no packs of wolves or mountain lions came; else she would have to fight. And with only a sword, she was not very sure as to who would come out alive after such an encounter.

* * *

 

As soon as the morning sun had illuminated enough of the surrounding environment, Fheon continued on her way to Erebor.

Despite the bags beneath her eyes, she remained awake and vigilant, climbing the mountain quickly so as to keep her word to the dwarves—that she would return to them by afternoon. But considering the pace of her journey, she was likely to arrive at the hidden entrance of the Mountain even before the sun had fully risen.

She distracted herself by focusing on walking with light feet, for her limbs had grown weary from the exertion she had put upon them the last few days. The mountainside was slick with dew, making it all the more difficult for her not to trip over her own feet.

She had already crossed the narrow desert the day before, just before nightfall, and so it was just another two hours before she reached the overhang. She made the mistake of looking down at the ruins of Dale, if only for a moment. Suddenly, comparisons of it and what was now the town of Esgaroth sprung to her mind, followed by the long-known fact that many had perished to Smaug’s fire… including Elijah.

At the thought of her brother, Fheon struck her stomach with the pommel of her sword. Pain immediately lanced up her torso, immobilizing her for a minute. _Buck up, you idiot,_ she thought.

As soon as she had the strength to move again, she turned and started making for the stone dwarf. For a while, her sword remained in hand until she had dispelled all thoughts of Elijah from her mind—at which time, she once again sheathed the blade and carried on in a faster pace.

The towering stone statue soon entered her sights, almost completely hidden by the jagged rocks jutting out of the cliff-side. Fheon climbed the staircase with practiced ease. No doubt, taking the route to the front entrance of the Mountain would have caused her less energy, but she had only ever taken the route once, and it had been going _away_ from the Mountain. Nori was not there to correct her if she took a wrong turn, either.

Entering the tunnel that would lead her to the treasure room, she noticed that the torches on the walls had been lit

She found refuge in the fact that none of the tunnels would lead her to any sort of dead end, and that, no matter which combination she chose of lefts and rights, it would always lead her to _some_ part of the Mountain. So she took random turns, took her time, and eventually ended up in the dining hall—as she had hoped for, for she still had the right to _hope_ —

_Stop it._

Quickly, Fheon threw on a mask of detachment and strode into the chamber. Only about half of the Company sat at the long tables, eating but not using the plates, for those as well as the utensils had gathered a meager amount of dust since the dwarves had last been in Erebor.

As soon as Fheon stepped into the threshold, each one of them shot to their feet. She noticed Bilbo among their ranks, a greasy turkey leg in his hand. She acknowledged him with only an extra second of eye contact before continuing to the table.

Her eyes scanned the dusty surface of it and, to her slight disappointment, found that there was no food left over for her.

“You’ve gone hunting again, I see,” she muttered, “But did not catch enough game to have left any for my brunch.”

The dwarves shared somewhat nervous glances with each other.

“We can go out again if you’d like, Fheon,” said Kili. There was something off in his voice; she had never heard it like that before.

She shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m not very hungry anyway.” Her stomach growled, but the sound was low enough to not have given away her lie. Her face certainly did not. “Where are the others?”

“In the treasure room,” answered Gloin, “searching for the Arkenstone.”

“How long have they been at it?”

“Ever since Kili, Fili, Bofur and Oin arrived yesterday.”

The dwarf’s answer pinned her on the spot. She allowed a small frown. “Surely Thorin still lets you eat and sleep?”

“Of course,” said Kili, and then his voice dropped an octave. “But when we aren’t, we’re down there with him while he orders us about... Not that we mind, of course,” he hastily added. “We want to find the Jewel as much as he does. It’s just…”

Surprisingly, Bilbo continued for him. “Something’s not right with him. He’s a little _too_ obsessed.”

Fheon pondered about it for a moment, grateful to have something to occupy her thoughts. “Let’s not be too quick with our conclusions, yes?” (Though she suspected that the illness had already taken hold of the new King.) “For now, do what you can to get him back to his old self. Apart from that, nothing else you can do, really.” _Other than get food for me,_ she wanted to add, but thought better of it. Remembering Kili’s injury, she said, “How’s your leg?”

“As good as new,” he answered, and then, somewhat abashedly, “Tauriel came around and fixed me up.”

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Perhaps that was the reason Tauriel had been with them when they escaped from Lake-town. The question was: why did the elf follow them so far? Was it just to help Kili? And so the question came again: _why_?

The embarrassment remained on Kili’s face, as well as a slight blush. He would not meet Fheon’s eyes. She pursed her lips slightly, discerning what might have been going on between him and Tauriel. Even though she did not completely approve of it, she was in no position to judge who should love who.

As she was turning around to make for the treasure room, to get a glimpse of what she had missed, Kili called out to her: “Fheon!” he said, and then, “I’m sorry… about Elijah.”

A familiar ache settled between her ribs, squeezing her heart. She cleared her throat and said over her shoulder, “Aye, me too.” Then she renewed her stride and walked out of the room before anyone could add more weight onto her shoulders.

For a while, she just wandered the citadel in silence, gathering her thoughts and recomposing herself. She had no idea a single statement about Elijah would break her down so. It only added to her dismay that the rest of the dwarves would have some things to say about him as well. What was she to do: pretend to be fine until finally the fourteen of them had finished with their condolences?

She wished she could tell her companions to simply bugger off, but after all they had been through, it surely wouldn’t sit well with her conscience. This fact, along with the grumbling of her stomach, irritated her greatly.

After five minutes or so, Fheon ultimately found herself standing before the notorious treasure room. The coins and gems within the keep were so well-kept that, even with almost no torchlight at all, light still bounced off them and covered Fheon’s face in specks of yellow.

She had thought the atmosphere in the room would be different, considering they had vanquished Smaug, but that was not the case. Everything felt the same. She could still feel the knot in her gut, and her body itched all over in her anxiousness.

Balin, Oin, Bombur, Dwalin, Ori, and Fili were buried up to their knees in the coins, hunched over and sifting through the mounds of gold. The King was separated from all the others, standing on the junction of a staircase. He could see everyone and everything from up there.

Luckily, Fheon came up from the steps behind him. She kept her footsteps light, so he did not notice her, and did not announce her presence until she was standing straight with her hands clasped behind her, a blank expression on her face.

“Thorin,” she greeted softly, making the Dwarf King start slightly in surprise.

“Fheon,” he exclaimed. “You just got back?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“There was nothing to be found.”

The look on his face said it all: every soul in the Mountain had been informed of Elijah’s death.

“You have my condolences, Fheon,” he said, earnest at the moment. “He was a good man.”

Fheon knew not the proper reply. She would not cry in front of him and lament of how her brother had been the only family she had left. She would not tell him of the _nothingness_ she had found in the ruins of Lake-town. She would not tell him of how the last thing Elijah had done was to save a young man from a long, agonizing death— _Stop._

She forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“Will you help search for the Arkenstone?”

The suddenness and brusqueness of his question was enough to startle her out of her self-pity. For a long moment, she regarded his dazed expression, the nearly desperate look in his eye, and saw what she needed to see.

Despite her apprehension, she answered in a blunt tone, “Of course.”

* * *

 

A few minutes before nightfall, Dwalin, the only one who Thorin seemed to still listen to, told him that they had to rest. It would do them no good to continue searching while they were exhausted, lest one of them collapse into the mounds of gold and be buried.

After much reasoning from Dwalin and Balin (who was as close to an advisor as either of them could get), Thorin finally gave them leave to rest, except for said two dwarves, who he ordered meet with him at the throne room, with the added request for Bilbo and Fheon. The look on his face was cause enough not to question him.

Fheon, along with the three others Thorin had requested for, met with Thorin in the throne room. He stared up at the jewel-frame embedded at the top of the throne, shattered when Smaug first took the Jewel, along with Erebor. As soon as Fheon and the others were standing a safe distance away from him, Dwalin spoke.

“There has been no sign of the Arkenstone so far, Thorin.”

The King did not turn away from the frame as he said, “It is here in these halls. I know it.”

“We have searched and searched,” Dwalin insisted.

“Not well enough.”

“We would all see the stone returned. You know that.”

“And yet it is still not found!”

Fheon’s frown deepened. She had heard Thorin snap at one or more of his kin before, but not raise his voice in such a manner that it echoed several times throughout the chamber before fading out entirely.

“Do you doubt the loyalty of anyone here?” asked Balin. She noticed the amount of shock, realization, and then dismay on the dwarf’s face, which he quickly masked with a hard inquiring expression. Thorin turned and looked at him with cold eyes as he stepped down from the throne. Balin continued, “The Arkenstone is the birthright of our people.”

“It is the _King’s_ Jewel,” Thorin retorted in a hushed tone, before shouting, “Am I not the King?”

Balin turned away in exasperation. Fheon, however, regarded the new king warily. Without having to think much about it, she knew that all of their suspicions had just been confirmed.

“Know this,” said Thorin, meeting her eyes as she quickly eased a milder countenance onto her face. “If anyone should find it and _withhold_ it from me… I will be avenged.”

He finished with something that closely resembled an animalistic growl, turned, and then disappeared behind the throne. Fheon took this as his sign of dismissing them.

Sighing softly, she trudged down the steps and followed the others out of the throne room. She thought to herself, then, if the kind of horror they had unleashed could be worse than the dragon itself. There were many illnesses in the world, but one deriving from gold was very rare, and she was sure that the remedy for it was even rarer.


	27. Erebor II

After their meeting with Thorin, Fheon went to the kitchen immediately. She was hungrier than she was willing to admit.

Unfortunately, none of the dwarves had been able to go hunting for supper and Bombur was left to create some sort of porridge with anything he could get his hands on.

Fheon trusted him enough to know that he had not placed anything disgusting into the gruel, so she scooped her fill into a bowl and decided that it would be best for her to eat separated from the others. They were sure to have questions for her, if they were not going to give their condolences, and she was not yet fully prepared.

She took her pouch of mint leaves from Oin and then asked Ori where the sleeping quarters were. He instructed her with a set of directions, most of which she made a point to remember. It was far too late in the night for her to get lost. She wanted to gain as much rest as she could.

She followed Ori’s instructions and arrived at a long corridor. The sides were lined with doors, and she figured Ori had thought she’d meant the _servant’s_ sleeping quarters… Did dwarves even have servants?

Shrugging, she entered the nearest room and found every object in the room coated with dust, except for the one bed at the far wall, surprisingly. The dwarves must have gone to bother dusting the mattresses off beforehand. Perhaps the servant’s quarters were the only rooms they had. Perhaps their true bedrooms, which they had left behind years ago, were found in the deeper sections of the Mountain. If so, then Smaug was sure to have levelled the chambers.

Fheon was no farther from having simple guesses about the structure of Erebor as she had been months ago.

Nevertheless, she settled down on the bed and welcomed the soft down of the mattress. Sitting cross-legged, she started shovelling the gruel into her mouth, grimacing at the taste. It was bitter, yet sweet at the same time. Not a very good combination, considering the texture of it. She unclasped her canteen from her belt and washed the gruel down with the cool water.

The room was humid. Soon, her skin had become sticky with sweat. She removed her belt, chainmail hauberk, and her gambeson as well, for the time being. Then she dug the brown pouch out of her pocket and undid the lace. The aroma of mint leaves immediately entered her nostrils and soothed her weary senses.

She crushed the leaves into a fine powder between her palms and then trickled a bit of water onto it, before mixing it together. Careful not to let the balm slip off her hands, she gathered it onto her left hand, sunk three of her fingers into the mixture, pulled away the top of the shoulder brace, and then dabbed it onto her left shoulder.

The result was almost instantaneous. Coolness spread forth from where she rubbed the balm, gently massaging it onto the bruise. As she did so, she dropped her head onto the pillow and continued massaging.

Unconsciously, her eyelids drooped closed in exhaustion, and eventually, she fell asleep.

* * *

 

_It was a very long hallway. She did not know why Bard had sent them to this part of the house, neither could she fathom the oddity of their situation. Bard’s house was not wide, though it was considerably tall, yet this hall before them seemed to go_ forward _for a mile, if not more. Perhaps it had been built underwater so that it could continue on? Without the proper knowledge of its structure, Fheon was left to wonder if the passageway would lead them right smack in the middle of the lake._

_As they walked, Elijah tapped the walls in a continuous rhythm, creating an unsystematic beat. He hummed along with it, and the sounds he made reverberated up and down the passage._

_“Stop that, will you?” Fheon finally said._

_“Why?”_

_“It’s distracting.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because it’s annoying.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because you’re acting_ childish _, Elijah”_

_“Why?”_

_She turned her head and threw her brother a glare, though even that was half-hearted. The corners of her lips twitched upwards in a slight smile, and she looked away so he wouldn’t see. Sometimes, she had doubts whether he was actually older than her._

_“Where do you think this leads?” she asked._

_Elijah shrugged. “No idea.”_

_“Why do you think Bard told us to go here though?”_

_“Who’s Bard?”_

_Fheon stopped in her tracks. Slowly, and with a frown, she looked at her brother to find an utmost confused expression on his face. “What do you mean,_ ‘Who’s Bard?’ _?_

_His frown deepened. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”_

_“He smuggled us into Esgaroth with Thorin and the others!”_

_“What’s an_ Esgaroth _? And who’s Thorin?”_

_She growled and hit him on the arm. “That’s not funny.”_

_He opened his mouth to say more but was interrupted by an abrupt creaking sound. From the corner of her eye, Fheon saw a wide slit appear on the wall. She jumped back and away from it in surprise, but Elijah remained where he was, transfixed on her._

_Before she could pull him to safety, a glistening plate of metal, about ten feet long and as wide as the passageway, shot out from the wall and completely cut Fheon off from her brother. She ran up and pounded against it with all her might, calling to Elijah._

_From the other side of the barrier, he said, “What happened?”_

_“What’s wrong with you?” she screeched, but then thought better of herself. “Look, we’ll get out of this mess. I promise.”_

_“Aren’t you overreacting a bit?” he asked. “It’s just a wall. And there’s a slab right here so you can see me. I’m still with you.”_

_She frowned and searched the barrier for the slab he was talking about. When she found none, she shouted, “What are you talking about—?” Then she cut herself off when a rectangular grate slid to the side, revealing a hole long and wide enough for her to look through. Instead of seeing Elijah, she saw a man with dark brown hair and kind green eyes._

_“True siblings can work when they are apart just as well as they can when they are together,” said Leon. “Don’t worry, Talia. The rabbit just nicked him, that’s all. Serves him right, he kept playing with it as if it was a bunny.” A soft voice, a woman’s voice, echoed down the hall and reached Fheon’s ears. Her father smiled. “That’d be your mother calling. Take care of him, will you, Talia? I’ll be back in a bit.”_

_Fheon looked away from her father and found Elijah lying on the floor by the wall. He was pinned there by a wooden beam taller and wider than Fheon herself. Blood caked the side of his face. When he coughed, red liquid flowed out from his mouth._

_A scream jarred the silence. It might have been Fheon’s. Desperate, she unsheathed her blade and buried it within the tiny gap between the barrier and the wall—to the hilt. She was hoping the wall would slide open just a little bit for her to be able to pass through, but it did not budge._

_“That hurts, Talia,” Elijah suddenly said as more blood poured down from his nostrils. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”_

_“I’m doing what I can,” Fheon growled in response, but it seemed he was not talking to her._

_“Mama taught me as much as she did you,” a girl’s voice replied; her voice came from the other side of the wall. “Now hold still—”_

_Another shrill yell pierced the air, a man’s. For all she did, Fheon could not move the barrier. Her blade gave out and broke, until nothing but a ragged piece of metal was jutting out of the hilt. She dropped the useless thing and looked into the grate again._

_She was horrified to find water streaming in from the walls, quickly filling the room. Elijah, who was on the floor, was already waist-deep in it. His blood mixed into the water, resulting in clouds of red spreading from where he sat. Yells of alarm and terror reached Fheon’s ears, but they seemed far-away. A man, a boy, two separate voices of two girls, and a woman—and even then, she seemed seemed to own the most enchanting voice Fheon had ever heard._

_“Elijah,” Fheon sobbed, pounding her fists against the wall in vain._

_“You did well, Talia, but you have to leave me now,” he said. Then he turned his head and offered her a bloody smile. “The Company goes first, after all.”_

_The water reached his jaw and he could speak no longer. The water that flooded into Fheon’s chamber through the grate was slow progress compared to the chamber behind the wall, where her brother was. But still she was up to her knees in the oddly warm water._

_Suddenly, an earth-shattering roar sounded from somewhere behind her._

_The grate on the barrier flew shut and Fheon whirled around. She was met with the sight of eyes the color of fire boring into her, teeth the size of swords, claws as large and sharp as well-forged spears—_

* * *

 

Fheon shot up with a gasp. Wildly, she scanned the room for the blazing eyes of Smaug, her arms covering her face to shield her from his claws.

It took her a full minute to gather her thoughts and realize that there was nothing dangerous in the room, that it had just been a nightmare. Struggling to catch her breath, she moved to let her legs dangle off the edge of the bed. By doing so, she accidentally sent the bowl she had used for her gruel to the floor.

Fheon made no move to pick it up. She remained on the bed, staring at the far wall, and could not help but to recall the nightmare.

Elijah pinned by a wooden beam, and then drowning… Was that how he had died?

She shuddered at how much pain he had to go through before his lungs finally gave out. The blood that was escaping his body proved too much for it to not have been fatal. Fheon deeply wished that her nightmare was less accurate than she was giving it credit to be.

Ultimately, she decided that it was best not to be left alone with her thoughts. Getting to her feet, she noticed how her sweat had soaked through the sheets of the bed. The feeling of the lemon balm on her shoulder had faded, so she was more careful with it. She laced on her gambeson and attached her belt around her waist. She picked up the fallen bowl on her way to the door. Once outside, she walked away from the sleeping quarters and made for nowhere in particular.

There were no windows to be found, so Fheon couldn’t tell whether or not she had slept through the night—but if she had to guess, her slumber had only been for a few hours. Her limbs and eyelids were heavy with fatigue.

She didn’t realize that she had arrived at the treasure room until she found herself glaring at the mounds of gold. Not wanting to be branded as a traitor and a thief, she quickly turned and searched for the stairs.

Up and up and up she went until her legs felt like they were going to give way. It was senseless to try looking for windows or openings that showed the world beyond. She was _inside_ a mountain, after all. Breathing heavily, she settled to lean against the wall and wait for her strength to return.

As she was staring up at the intricate carvings on the ceiling, the faint sound of sniffling reached her ears. And then very, very light footsteps.

Frowning, Fheon poked her head out of the corner to see Bilbo step into a doorway. He didn’t seem to be the one crying though.

Bilbo was facing away from her, so he would not notice her presence unless she made a sound. Fheon held her breath and looked into the doorway, and then saw the white hair of Balin. He was standing amidst rows and rows of shelves, and his shoulders shook as his weeping came to a halt, seeming to notice Bilbo’s company.

“Dragon-sickness,” said the dwarf. “I’ve seen it before—that look, the terrible _need_. It is a fierce and jealous love, Bilbo. It sent his grandfather mad.”

Bilbo took slow, careful steps into the room until he was in front of the old dwarf. “Balin, if Thorin had the Arkenstone... or if it was found, would it help?”

His voice was so hushed that Fheon had to relocate somewhere closer, standing pinned against the wall on the right side of the doorway.

“That stone crowns all,” said Balin. “It is the summit of this great wealth, bestowing power upon he who bears it. Would it stay his madness? No, laddie. I fear it would make him worse. Perhaps it is best it remains lost.”

The hobbit could have nodded in reply, but Fheon could not have been sure. All that followed was a series of mumblings too low even for her to hear in her position—and then more footsteps. She thought against staying hidden. What good would it have done her? At such a point in time, she wasn’t the only one who wanted to heal Thorin of his sickness.

When Bilbo stepped out of the room, there was no anger in his expression at having been spied on, only surprise.

“You heard?” he asked, to which Fheon answered with an affirmative. He lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “What do you think of it?”

After a moment’s thought, she said, “Thorin’s not as deep in the sickness as we might think... but I have to agree with Balin. It is best, for the moment, if it remains lost.”

Bilbo nodded before an odd look eased onto his face. “Can I… hug you?”

Fheon scowled. “Why?”

“I heard about Elijah…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what the loss of a brother feels like, but it must be excruciating.”

“It is.”

“Just know that you’re my friend, Fheon, okay? You’ve kept me from danger more times than I can count, and we’ve shared some laughs together, and… I share in your grief—of losing Elijah. I know that it’s by no means even close to what you must be feeling. But I will do anything I can to at least help lessen the pain, if you let me, of course…”

The ghost of a smile appeared on Fheon’s face. “Thank you, Bilbo.” _He still is wary of me, even after all this time._ The ache had returned to her heart, weighing heavily on her. She took a second to think before saying, “And I suppose a hug would do some good.”

Without another word, the hobbit stepped up and wrapped his arms around her midsection, turning his head to the side as he laid it just below her shoulder blade. He seemed to have remembered the injury on her left shoulder, as he was careful not to hit his shoulder against it.

For such a small thing, he had some strength in his arms. His embrace was tight, reassuring, and Fheon felt her eyes stinging with tears. She knew that he would not take advantage of her, for neither of them liked each other in _that_ way, but even she had a brief moment of reluctance before she let her hands slip over his shoulders as she returned his embrace.

“You still have a family, Fheon,” he said, voice muffled against her shirt. “Don’t forget that. Don’t lose hope.”

_Hope._

There was that word again. The word that sent a jolt through Fheon’s body that was not entirely calming. She closed her eyes in an effort to remove the word from her mind, and then by squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder, signalled him that the moment was over. He pulled away without question, sending her a small smile in acknowledgement. But she was not quite finished talking with him yet.

After checking that Balin was still much occupied with his own thoughts, she placed an arm over the hobbit’s shoulder and subtly led him down two or three hallways. Once she was satisfied that they were completely alone, she regarded his confused expression with a raised eyebrow. “Isn’t it time you tell me more about that piece of jewelry you have in your pocket?”

His eyes widened. Almost unconsciously, his hand dipped into his pocket, where Fheon had spotted a small lump beforehand. When he said nothing, she tilted her head slightly. “Come now, Bilbo. I know you didn’t promise anything, but don’t I deserve this much?”

Reluctance crossed his features before, slowly, his fingers pulled out of his pocket, with the gold ring held between them.

“In the Goblin-tunnels, I had a most frightening and intense encounter with a creature,” he said in a hushed tone. “I don’t know what it was, but it was going to eat me had I not tricked it. As I was escaping, I found this”—he raised the ring—“lying on the floor. And apparently it belonged to the creature. Nearly got myself killed trying to leave with it.”

“Well, why didn’t you just give it back?”

“Do you really think the _thing_ would have let me leave if I gave it back? I held it as leverage, if only for a few minutes.”

“But you’ve kept it, after all this time.” Fheon tilted her head questioningly. “Why?”

Bilbo pursed his lips and rolled his eyes a bit. “You’ve seen what it can do—it makes me invisible! It has proven very useful for us, and I’m sure we’ll need it again in the future.”

There was something about the way he held it close to him that unnerved Fheon. He looked too much like Thorin whenever there was mention of the Arkenstone. “What else can it do?”

“I’m not sure… But once, I used it when we were being attacked by those spiders in Mirkwood. When I wore it, for some reason, I could _understand_ them.”

“The spiders?” said Fheon. The hobbit nodded once and a shadow fell across her face. “If it was in the hands of a creature in the Goblin-tunnels when you found it, and if it lets you understand dark speech, then there is a very big possibility that it is an evil object, Bilbo.”

“I know that,” he replied. “When it’s on my finger, I feel this sort of dark presence surrounding me. It becomes hard to breathe, which is why I only wear it when it’s absolutely necessary. You don’t have to worry.”

Fheon eyed the ring doubtfully for a moment longer, pursing her lips. “Very well. I will not alert the others of it. But please, just… be careful, Bilbo. Do not let the darkness consume you.”

Bilbo nodded in understanding and tucked the ring back into his pocket. He patted the material over the object, making Fheon narrow her eyes in suspicion. He swallowed, as if in nervousness, before saying a quick farewell and then walking away.

She stared after him and sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t have another corrupted soul in her hands, not at the same time as Thorin... Not after Elijah.


	28. Erebor III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: "Mahal" is a Filipino word for "love". ;)

In the dining hall, Fheon was satisfied to see three large platters topped with fresh turkey meat.

She assumed that a small group of dwarves had taken it upon themselves to hunt earlier in the morning, which they were right to do, because Fheon did not feel like doing anything for quite some time… even though several more activities would be inevitably expected of her. But her grumbling stomach won her over, and in the end she ate at the long table with the Company, deciding to get it over with.

She tugged a wing off one of the turkeys and dug her teeth into the juicy meat. The oiled fats of it slid down to her chin. She nonchalantly wiped it off with her sleeve before taking another bite. In less than three minutes, she had finished the wing and was tugging at a leg.

The dwarves, it seemed, were just as ravenous for meat as she was. And so it was only when the food was finished when she felt all their eyes on her. She sighed inwardly and raised her head, sipping water from her canteen.

“How have you been, lass?” said Gloin, leaning forward and staring hard at her from across the table.

“How do you think?” she muttered in reply.

“You know what I mean.”

Nevertheless, he trailed off into silence, giving way for Bifur’s condolences, which were a series of grunts and very little words; though the look in his eyes said it all.

Fheon offered a small twitch of her lips. “Thank you, Bifur.”

Then followed Nori, Dori, Dwalin, Bombur, and Ori, to which Fheon answered them all with the same two words, followed by their names. If the dwarves noticed her repetitions, they did well not to show it. Beside her, Bilbo was smiling in reassurance, which she returned somewhat reluctantly.

She noticed that Fili, Kili, Bofur, and Oin were quiet—the four who had been with Elijah at Lake-town, who had supposed to have been there when he fell, too. They would not meet her eyes. Fheon held no false perceptions about herself; she was glad that they were guilty. They should be. She hid her emotions better than them, though.

It was Fili who finally mustered the courage to raise his eyes and look at her.

“We would never have let him go off with Bain if we knew such a thing would happen, Fheon,” he said. “He had been doing fine, even when the orcs attacked us.” Fheon hadn’t known about such an attack, though the only indication of this that she allowed to show was the slight rise of her eyebrows. “He still had his sword, his bow, his arrows—everything…”

“I thought he would be fine,” Bofur said, now. “He was _supposed_ to be fine!”

_Yes,_ Fheon silently agreed. _He was._

“We wanted to go back for him,” said Kili, “but Tauriel said that if we did, we would die too. And, well…”

He trailed off and Fheon knew what he was supposed to say, so she continued for him: “You didn’t want to die.”

Her statement was met with stony silence. None of the Company would meet her gaze now, except for Bilbo, but even she sensed an uncomfortable air around him.

“Well, what do you want me to say?” She tried to seem casual but there was no hiding the thinness of her voice. Her indifferent manner quickly slipped away after that. “That I hate you for leaving him? That I am utterly _lost_ right now knowing that my brother is dead? That I’m proud that he saved a young man from death, but by doing so, sealed himself a terrible fate?  Do you want me to break down here so you can comfort me and I won’t be _furious_ anymore?”

She refused to cry.

“ _The Company goes first._ ” A bitter tone edged into her voice. “I used the boat to go to Lake-town, you know. And I searched and searched for a body—for _anything_. I thought I could gain something from going there, perhaps my strength, but there was nothing for me there. Nothing but ash.” She took a shuddering breath and couldn’t help but to raise her voice. “He was supposed to meet me here when it was safe, to share in your redeemed glory!”

She didn’t fail to notice the way several of the dwarves flinched at her words. She tried to say more—“Now he’s just...”—but by then, her head had become too much of a mess for her to continue.

It dawned on her that she had risen to her feet as she was speaking.

Slowly, almost sheepishly, she settled back down on the bench, just as Ori murmured, “Gone,” finishing her statement.

Fheon nodded once before drifting into a melancholic silence.

It carried on like this for a minute or two, with Fheon as quiet as the dwarves and only partially aware of Bilbo’s presence beside her. Suddenly, the sombre stillness of the room was broken by a gruff mutter. Nothing that Fheon or Bilbo could understand; it seemed to be in Khuzdul.

She raised her head, curious at first, but then slowly shifting into astonished once she realized that the dwarves seemed to be praying. The tone they put into the mantra as well as the way they swayed on their seats made it obvious, though it could have easily been mistaken for one of their dwarvish songs.

As they continued their chant, Fheon felt a strange sense of completeness settle over her. Ultimately, the dwarves grew silent once more, and then the sorely misplaced feeling left her as quickly as it had come.

“A song from our people,” Balin explained. “A peace offering from us to you—for the death of your brother. It is a prayer to Mahal, our maker, to give back to you the strength you have lost.”

Only when he was finished explaining did Fheon realize that, indeed, something had changed within her. Her limbs felt stronger, her mind sharper—the heartache, however, remained. Something must have shown on her face because then Balin placed a hand on her shoulder in sympathy. “It’ll get better, lass,” he said. “Just give it time.”

Throughout her day in the treasure hold looking for the Arkenstone, she was left wondering whether Mahal had made a mistake with his blessing, or if the dwarves had made a mistake with their prayer.

* * *

 

Late in the evening, Fheon lay wide awake in her bed.

It had been hours since she’d decided to turn in—and she truly wanted to, thinking that perhaps Mahal’s blessing would take full effect after a good night’s sleep—but she found that it was pointless. Her legs were heavy with weariness from walking through mounds of gold all day, but her eyelids were yet to grow the same.

Again, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, she closed her eyes and focused all her attention on her heartbeat. She knew she’d fall asleep quicker without the distraction of useless ponderings. However, it seemed her usually persistent strategy was failing her the time she needed it the most.

Soon, a scowl had appeared on her mouth and her eyebrows scrunched together in impatience. Thrice, she was able to relax her face but met with no success.

Her eyes had already adjusted to the darkness of the room. To her right, there was a bedside table. Sighing in frustration, she reached across it and grabbed a box of matches, struck one of the sticks, and then lit the candle on the table.

Even before the flame had grown considerably large, she sat up and pushed the table an arm’s length away from her bed: an old habit that had returned because of her most recent nightmare. Satisfied that the table was at a safe enough distance, she stretched her arm out and grabbed the scabbard beneath her bed. She stared at the sheath for a moment, running her hands across leather surface, before grabbing the hilt and pulling out the blade.

The light from the candle bounced off the surface of the metal. Fheon tilted her sword here and there and did not remove her eyes from the glittering blade. As she stared, she thought about Thorin, how they were going to be able to protect him from something as intangible as his own family history.

Fheon barely blinked, and before long, dark spots were dancing across her vision. The space between her eyes began to hurt and eventually she was forced to blink. She lied back down again, with her now-sheathed sword lying across her torso, and closed her eyes.

Just as her mind was drifting into a hazy state, three knocks sounded on the door. The dull sound seemed to pierce through the still, humid air like a heated knife through butter.

Fheon allowed herself a sigh of exasperation before pulling herself to her feet. She slipped her sword below her bed and walked to the door. As she was turning the knob, she arranged a passive-aggressive look onto her face—however the dwarf waiting in the hallway outside made her neither passive nor aggressive, only very much surprised.

“Good evening, Fheon,” said Thorin. “Did I wake you?”

“Not really…” She frowned in confusion. “What brings you here at this hour?”

His voice dropped an octave and he leaned closer to her, as if they were sharing a secret. “Balin told me of the prayer they made for you earlier today,” he said. “Such things rarely go as planned, so I wanted to check on you.”

“Your concern is… flattering, but shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“For some reason, falling asleep has become more difficult to do as of late, as I’m sure you would know.” Her gaze hardened and he seemed to relent. “May I come in?”

After a moment of hesitation, Fheon stepped aside and watched the King Under the Mountain walk into her room. He glanced around even there was nothing to see, other than the candle on the bedside table, and her tunic and mail hauberk folded neatly at the foot of her bed. Her sword and belt remained on the floor beneath her bed, but from where he stood, Thorin was sure to have seen it by then. He said nothing about it, however, and remained at one side of the room.

Fheon stood by the side of her bed, staring at the man with caution.

“Please tell me why you’re here,” she started slowly, “Else I might never ask you to leave.”

Surprise flashed across his face. Fheon noted the tinge of sympathy in his usually gruff voice when he spoke, “Balin told me that you’ve been very… fragile as of late. Because of Elijah’s passing.”

She said nothing.

“I understand that it’s a very delicate topic to broach. He was your brother and the only family you had left. If I were to lose Dis in the same manner, I don’t know what I would do with myself.”

“But you haven’t lost her, and you won’t,” she retorted plainly. “She’s safe where she is and Smaug is dead. He won’t be able to terrorize your people anymore.”

His unrelenting gaze faltered. He seemed to second guess himself after what she had said.

Slowly lowering herself onto the bed, she said, “If you’re trying to ease the pain, Thorin… you’ll have to do better than that.”

He pursed his lips, taking slow steps towards her bed. She hadn’t realized how close he had gotten until she was able to inhale the musky aroma surrounding him. He looked at her questioningly, and she nodded. He sat down beside her and the mattress sunk beneath his weight. When his arm grazed her shoulder, she moved a bit to give him more space, though some part of her wanted to stay as close as possible.

“If you would hear me,” he murmured, “I would like to tell you about my brother, Frerin, who has also passed into the Halls of Mandos.”

He had mentioned his younger brother to her only once before, saying that he had died at the Battle of Azanulbizar. Though Fheon knew that it was just another title for the war the dwarves fought with the orcs for Moria, she was yet to learn about ‘Halls of Mandos’. She nodded anyway.

Her previous drowsiness had disappeared, and she decided against telling Thorin off. The simple fact that he had listened to Balin’s account of her recent “fragility” only proved that the dragon sickness was yet to take root in deeper territory. She would keep him from returning to the treasure room for as long as she could, even if it meant having to broach the topic of her brother… which, rightly said, was still a very sensitive subject.

“He was there when we were first driven into exile by Smaug,” said Thorin. “And he was one of the few who were able to remain both optimistic and vengeful. It was an odd combination, but one, I think, Elijah would have understood if they had gained the opportunity to meet.”

Fheon nodded in agreement.

“He was a bright man, despite still being very young in Dwarvish years. He was the one who suggested to me that we work in human villages to earn money for our people, so we could find a place to settle down in. Without him, I fear it would have taken me a year before thinking of the same idea.”

Fheon’s lip twitched. “It’s not a difficult idea to think of.”

Smiling slightly, Thorin made a gruff sound from the back of his throat. “In the Battle of Azanulbizar, my father led the first assault, and Frerin was there with him. When Azog killed my grandfather Thror, they were weakened by the loss and driven into the woods near Lake Mirrormere. This was where Frerin died. Very few survived the war, and those who did not, we burned in funeral pyres.”

“Including your brother.”

“Including my brother.”

For a while they were both silent, until Fheon shook her head. “Frerin died a warrior’s death.”

“And Elijah did not?” said Thorin. “Kili informed me of what you said this morning, that before he died, he saved a boy and took the penalty upon himself. Do you not think this to be the perfect death, to sacrifice yourself so that another may live?”

She did not answer him, instead undoing her braid just so she could do something with her hands. It was then that she realized just how long her hair had gotten. She debated on whether or not she should cut it a few inches shorter.

“Tell me about him,” she muttered. “Frerin.”

“What would you like to know?”

“What he looked like, how he acted, how he thought, how he spoke... anything.”

Thorin tilted his head to the side and was quiet for a moment, thinking. “His hair was the same color as Fili’s,” he said. “He inherited that from our mother. Apart from that, he looked very much like me, as you would expect. But there were subtle differences that our kin noticed: he had a wider jaw, a larger nose, and a wilder mane. Despite all these, the women found him very attractive.” His lip worked up in a smile. “He was much less disciplined than either I or Dis. He had a knack for getting himself in trouble. Once, during the night of his coming-of-age day, he was caught philandering with one of the women from the village.”

Then he went quiet again, and Fheon could feel him staring at her, expecting her to say something. She did not and he sighed before continuing.

“Surprisingly, however, he thought very maturely for someone who went looking for trouble almost every day. Whenever we asked him a simple question, be it about a brick or a worm, the river or a dry piece of clay, he would always wait for a minute and think deeply about it, and then answer us with another one of his newly-thought philosophies. One day, I watched him throw an apple towards the same woman he had philandered with, and I asked him why he had done so. He answered me that to throw an apple at someone was to symbolically declare one’s love, and then similarly, to catch it meant accepting that love. I never found out if he had made it up on his own or if he had read it from a book somewhere, but I’ve never forgotten it.”

A thought occurred to Fheon, then—one that made her fingers falter in weaving her hair. She made sure Thorin did not notice before forcing an indifferent edge in her voice. “Have you ever thrown an apple at someone, Thorin?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered. Her fingers faltered again, right before he added, “To my sister, Dis. She barely caught it, it hit her on the face, but it ended up in her hand all the same.”

He chuckled at the memory, and Fheon allowed herself a moment to listen to the soothing, rumbling sound. Then she cleared her throat. “Was Frerin a good swordsman?”

“Yes, he was,” said Thorin. “He was considerably effective with an axe, but even more so with a sword. Before we were run out of Erebor, we forged him a sword that suited his hands perfectly. He was not as large as me or Dis, and he was quick to think, which made it easy for him to defeat even ten enemies by himself.”

Fheon snorted lightly. “I assume he always carried a shield with him, if he was so reckless as to charge into the fray with no ally.”

“Aye, a shield did him good many a time.”

Thorin chuckled for the second time that night, and again Fheon listened. Her body hummed in response, a coil started in her stomach, and she had to fight the urge to smile. Though with much difficulty, she succeeded in remaining composed. They drifted into a companionable silence, one that, after a while, she was tempted to break.

“What is to become of us, Thorin?”

There were two meanings to her question, and similarly, two answers. One was of much more sentiment, and the other was something expected of friends, or even allies in a war. She did not know which answer she wanted from him more.

Eventually, however, he answered the more respectable question. “Others are sure to have heard of Smaug’s death. They will come here and look for the mountain’s wealth, like the spineless greed-driven people they are. It will take a few months for their wills to be broken, but it can and will be done.”

Fheon saw a glimpse of the sickness return to his eyes, along with a fire of hatred. It was then that he hesitated. “And you… you will return to The Shire and reclaim your position there as a Ranger, I suppose. Of course, I would not mind if you stayed here until we have finished handling those who would oppose us… or if you would never leave at all.”

Hearing this, Fheon raised her head and found a most earnest look on his face.

“You have a place here, Fheon,” he said. “You’ve earned the favor of the dwarves as well as my trust. With you by our side, no one would dare compete with us. Once my kin return here, your tale will be passed on by our finest bards. I would not accept anything less, not after everything you’ve done for me… for us.”

There came a pause, and Fheon noticed two of his fingers had settled over her knuckles, stroking them.

Quite suddenly it became difficult for her to think straight. Her acute senses became highly aware of his scent, the warmth radiating off him. There was a tugging sensation in her stomach and her chest hurt, though it wasn’t entirely terrible. Yet at the back of her mind, there was a constant nagging of doubt.

Thorin wanted her to stay, and that she could do… but even so, she was in no state to be making any life decisions. What would Hiram think? No, for this, she needed time to think—and preferably not sitting so close to a dwarf she had mixed feelings about.

It was a miracle she’d been able to decide at all. Gathering her courage, she tore her eyes away from his face to stare at the back his hand.

“Thorin,” she murmured softly, “I think it’s time for you to leave.” Before she dared to steal a glance of what emotion was on his face, she stood and walked to the door, opening it for him. Only then was she able to look at him again.

The look on his face was a mixture of surprise, anger, and acceptance. Fheon thought it was only fair for him to feel such things, and therefore felt a small sense of fear start clawing at her. She bit the inside of her cheek and forced a look of casual impassiveness.

She waited patiently as Thorin gathered his wits about himself. Nodding, he said, “Of course.”

He stood and walked to stand once more in the hallway outside, albeit hesitantly. Fheon found that she could not bring herself to close the door. He was still halfway inside the threshold and it would be vulgar of her to close the door in his face. So she waited—for several heartbeats.

Once it became apparent that he was not going to make a move, she opened her mouth to ask him politely to step out. Then his hand came up and brushed a strand of hair away from her face.

Her emotions betrayed her.

Shock flashed across her face as her breath hitched in her throat. His hand was warm, his touch feather light as his finger danced past her cheek and to the side if her jaw, where it stayed. In a single step, he was close enough for their noses to practically be touching. His breath fanned over her face, and his chest was a mere inch from hers. His gaze was as soft as she had ever seen them, his lips so close to touching hers. She could not help but to stare at them, watch them move as he spoke.

“Please,” Thorin he said. “Consider my offer.”

“I will,” she replied, voice barely a whisper. “Truly.”

His fingertip trailed down the side of her neck and she gasped. Her oxygen wafted over him and she could have sworn that when he blinked, his eyes rolled back the slightest bit. She had the same effect on him as he did on her, it seemed, though it brought her little relief.

Their lips were only centimetres away now. When she finally was able to raise her eyes, she found that he was staring down just as she had been before. He moved forward slightly. His mouth grazed hers.

But this was when she brought a hand up and placed it on his chest, gently pushing him away. He did not object. He complied with a slight smile on his face and only a bit of disappointment in his eyes. Fheon discovered it was quite difficult to meet his eyes.

“Good night, Thorin.”

“Good night, Fheon,” he replied in kind.

And then finally, before he could do so much as hold her gaze for a second longer, she closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That throwing-an-apple-to-someone-is-a-courting-symbol totally isn't mine. I actually searched that up just for this sole purpose. XD


	29. Erebor IV

As much as Fheon wanted to get at least an hour of sleep, it was impossible—even more so after what had just happened with Thorin. By then, her composure had recovered from the onslaught of the King’s presence so close to her, and she was able to think straight again. So while she lay wide awake on her bed with her hands behind her head, her mind wandered.

Her feelings for Thorin had only just recently become apparent to her, but to the rest of the Company, she was not sure. It was a constant nagging feeling—when he looked at her and her at him, when he spoke, when he chuckled—a yearning to be near him. It was enough to pull her away from her grief, if only momentarily.

During the early part of their journey, it had been obvious enough that theirs was a rocky start. But as the months passed, and as she eventually got over her original disposition considering the dwarves, she warmed up to the King Under the Mountain. She spoke to him more, trusted him more, just as he did her. She kept him and his kin from danger and by doing so gained a more intimate outlook on them. She learned their stories, they learned hers. They accepted her as one of their own and trusted her with their lives—even now, with her injured shoulder and Elijah gone. They shared in her grief and comforted her, gave her their blessings.

Fheon knew that none of these things would have ever happened if their leader had not accepted her into the Company.

Considering her feelings for him, she was yet to figure out exactly what it was—be it only intense respect for him or something much more. She had never encountered such powerful feelings for anyone before, except perhaps for those within her family. She would never have looked at her father or brother as possible lovers, though, people she could give her heart to.

When she was young, she had an admiration for one of the boys from their village, but he never noticed her. Now, with Thorin, it seemed there was a possible contender for her heart.

However, because there was yet to be a proper conclusion, Fheon was forced to ponder on what she was going to do about such sentiments. There were two possible outcomes. One, she would spend another few months in the Mountain, handle the forces that would oppose Thorin’s rule, just as Thorin himself had suggested. Afterwards, she would cut off all her ties with the Company—whether gently or heartlessly, she was yet to decide—and then return to Eriador, where she would resume her post as protector of The Shire with Hiram. If the dwarves were to go chasing after her, it would be their choice.

The second choice was staying in Erebor for the remainder of her years, as a good friend of the dwarves, and therefore being able to help in keeping the dragon-sickness harmless. Hopefully, Hiram would support such a decision. They would correspond through Caligula.

Staring at the roof, Fheon had to admit that the second choice was much more appealing than the first one.

For the remainder of the night, she thought and thought of the different possibilities, the constantly varying what-could-be’s and what-could-not’s. All the while, her gaze never wavered from the ceiling of her dimly lit room. Beside her head, the wax of the candle continued melting. When the string finally reached its end, the fire flickered as it sank deeper into the melted wax, until the flame died altogether.

Darkness came over Fheon’s senses. She could hear nothing more but the sound of her breathing. She rolled to face the wall. She would have been content with counting the many flaws and markings and dust motes on the surface of the stone, but she could not see. So she closed her eyes and retreated deep into herself, focusing on the rhythm of her heartbeat.

She soon discovered that it would skip a beat whenever thoughts of Thorin flitted by, and despite herself, the prospect made her smile.

* * *

 

It was a few hours after dawn when Fheon finally brought it upon herself to exit her room. Upon reaching the dining hall, she found the table all but cleared, save a few slabs of antelope meat and a single bowl of Bombur’s familiar-looking gruel. Seeing as no one else was inside the chamber with her, she presumed that the rest of the Company had already eaten their fill.

Once her stomach was full, she strode to the treasure room and found half the Company already sifting through the mounds of gold. The other half was nowhere to be found, but they would take over the search at midday.

Fheon scanned the dwarves who were currently searching, and was alarmed to find Thorin standing on a pedestal above, watching them. She turned around and resumed walking down the hallways again, determined not to let him see her. Not yet. She strove to gather her thoughts again and decided to look for Balin, for the medicinal herbs were with him.

She found him in the dusted remains of the library again, the same place she had seen him conversing with Bilbo about the dragon sickness.

“Balin,” she said, making him turn around, “Have you got the mint?”

He patted his pockets. “Aye,” He dug out the familiar brown pouch. Fheon took it from him and opened it to find almost no decrease in the amount of leaves within.

“No one else uses these?” she asked, and he nodded once. Sighing, she pocketed the pouch and bobbed her head to Balin in thanks, before turning around to leave.

Just as she was stepping out, he said, “Thorin visited you last night, did he not?”

She stopped in her tracks. She did not turn around, afraid of showing too much emotion. “He did. How did you know?”

“I sent him there, lass.”

She remembered that Thorin had mentioned such, but it had been lost behind the latter, more intimate conversation. She turned around, finally, and struggled to keep her composure. “What about it?” There was a note of defensiveness in her voice that made her cringe inwardly.

“Know this, Fheon,” said Balin in a hushed tone, stepping towards her. “I sent him to you because I am desperate to save him. Dragon-sickness is something very dangerous. It could undermine everything the dwarves stand for, and Thorin will be lost… But I know more than anyone about his feelings for you.” (Fheon expected as such—he was Thorin’s right hand man.) “Simple friendship will not do anything for him now. If there is anyone who can keep him from sinking deeper into his greed, it is you. Please tell me, what transpired last night?”

Fheon heard him out, every word, and could not help but to be astonished at how strong Thorin’s feelings for her must have been if Balin trusted her so much to pull him back from the brink.

Frowning, she took a moment to gather her thoughts, “At my request, he told me about Frerin, his brother who had passed.”

“He shares his memories of Frerin to very few people,” said Balin.

“He told me of his certainties about the people who would look to the Mountain for wealth, and his plans on keeping them at bay. And then… he offered me a place here, in Erebor. A chance to live as a friend of the dwarves. He said that my story would be told far and wide by bards.”

“It is a good offer, lass, and a generous one at that.”

“I know that.” Fheon considered the old dward for a moment and decided against sharing the latter portion of the night to Balin. It would not matter; he already knew about the King’s sentiments regarding her. Instead, she asked, “What do you think?”

Balin sighed and then looked at her in earnest, a glint in his eye. “Anyone capable of love is capable of being saved.”

“And you are sure that I am the right solution for him?”

“Yes, lass.” He nodded. “I am sure.”

* * *

 

The hallways were quiet. Fheon had several guesses as to where the rest of the Company were. Perhaps they were in their quarters, catching up on their sleep, or perhaps some of them had gone hunting. Similarly, they could be in the kitchens trying to add more flavor to Bombur’s gruel, if that was what they were going to have for supper.

As Fheon walked down a spiral staircase, she pondered on whether she should follow them out to the wilds. She could bring all of the Company’s water canteens in order to fill them up. It would be a sorry death indeed for them to die of dehydration when there was a freshwater stream not many miles from where they were.

Just as she was reaching a decision, she came across Bilbo, sitting on a stool by a pillar. He was looking down at something in his hand, but then seemed to notice Fheon’s presence and turned his head.

“Oh,” he said, not at all taken aback. “Hello, Fheon.”

“Hello, Bilbo,” she replied in kind.

“How are you?”

Fheon tried to get a glimpse of the object in his hand, already guessing that it was the enchanted ring he had found, but he was holding something slightly larger than that. “Nothing new,” she answered. “If I may ask, what’s that in your hand?”

He looked down and then jumped slightly, as if just understanding what she had meant. “Oh, it’s—”

Just as he was removing his fingers from around the object, Fheon felt another presence step up from behind her. She stepped back and turned to see Thorin walking out of the shadows. He was garbed in the same clothes he had been wearing last night when he visited her, making her feel a sense of nostalgia. Yet the look on his face was something more dangerous, colder—no doubt from the effects of the dragon-sickness. He had been in the presence of gold for too many hours.

“What indeed?” he said, almost growling,

“It-it’s nothing,” Bilbo stuttered.

“Show me.”

Fheon narrowed her eyes and forced a kinder expression onto her face. Inside, however, she was torn. What did Thorin like about her? Was it her usual apathetic demeanor or the gentleness she only sometimes showed? She had been thinking that her mere presence would have an effect on his mind, but he remained focused on Bilbo. Past the difficulty of the task, she was able to show a mixture of both indifference and kindness.

Bilbo unclenched his hand to reveal a small acorn resting in the middle of his palm. “I picked it up in Beorn’s garden,” he said.

A look of recognition crossed Thorin’s face. His gaze softened, and so did his tone. “You’ve carried it all this way?”

“I’m going to plant it in my garden, in Bag End.”

“It’s a poor prize to take back to The Shire,” said Thorin, smiling softly at Bilbo, and then switching his gaze to Fheon. After Balin’s confirmation that he indeed had feelings for her, Fheon was able to discern the sparkle of affection in his eyes. She did what she felt was right, what she wanted to do, and returned the smile.

Bilbo looked back and forth between them, trying to decipher what may have been going on. “One day it’ll grow,” he said, bemused. “And every time I look at it, I’ll remember… remember everything that happened—the good, the bad, and how lucky I am that I made it home.”

A note of sympathy entered his voice, though Fheon made no acknowledgement of it. Thorin’s smile widened, however, and he placed a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder before turning to Fheon.

“Have you considered my offer?” he inquired in a soft voice.

“I have,” she said.

“And?”

Hesitant, Fheon let two beats pass before speaking again. “Thorin, I—”

And then she was interrupted by the gruff voice of Dwalin. “Thorin!” he called, his footsteps echoing down the hall to their left. Before long his massive figure came into view. “Survivors from Lake-town, they’re streaming into Dale.”

The bright smile on Thorin’s face disappeared slowly until it was gone altogether, replaced by the previous taciturnity. He was still gazing at Fheon too, and she threw him a pleading look. No change came upon him and he turned away.

“Call everyone to the gate,” he ordered, already walking away. “To the gate! Now!”

Dwalin rushed back down the hall to call the others—how, Fheon was not sure. As Bilbo was about to do the same, she tugged on his elbow and made him face her. “There is still hope for Thorin, do you understand?” she said. He nodded. “You will help me bring him back.”

He nodded again. “Of course.”

By unspoken agreement, they headed straight for the front gate, leaving Dwalin to call for the others. Thorin was there waiting for them, holding two lit torches in his hands. He handed each of them to Fheon and Bilbo, telling them to light the braziers outside.

There were flights of stairs that led them at least ten feet off the ground where the braziers were. They lit each of the braziers separately. Glancing down, Fheon found the figures of Kili, Fili, Nori, Gloin, and Bifur running below and past them into the citadel. She and Bilbo followed soon after to find the entirety of the Company there and waiting for Thorin’s orders.

“Men,” said the King, “The people of Lake-town are right outside our borders as I speak. I will not let them enter this Mountain and steal from us what we have worked _too_ hard for. Gloin,”—he pointed to the red-headed dwarf—“grab a chisel and hammer. Break down the larger rubble outside, small enough to carry. Fheon, are you strong enough to help him?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Aye.”

“Then you will stay with him. Kili, Bilbo,”—he gestured to each of them—“get a wheelbarrow and bring the pieces here. The rest of you bring out the pulleys. Use them to pile the stone up onto here, to cover the door we lost to Smaug.” He pointed at the large hole where the front entrance had been. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work!”

* * *

 

They worked late into the night, and Fheon soon began despising her brain, which had been the cause of her losing sleep. Her limbs were strong enough, they were well-rested, but her mind was muddled and disorderly. The job she had been given was easy enough, simply a repetition of movements, but after a while she soon forgot what she was supposed to do and had to take a moment to herself to remember. It was frustrating.

She and Gloin were the only ones working outside. Kili and Bilbo came up to them from time to time, pushing a wheelbarrow and then filling it up with rock before returning into the Mountain, to bring the stone to the dwarves working on the gate within. Fheon’s shoulder offered her no trouble; she used her left hand to steady the chisel while her right arm pounded away. Gloin had found a hammer suitable enough for her stature, but it soon grew to be a tedious process. She wasn’t accustomed to using battle axes like the dwarves were.

Not long after, she had to stop with her work once more, fearing that she would instead crush her left hand by accident. In the end, she was replaced by Dwalin, she replaced Kili with the wheelbarrow, and Kili replaced Dwalin with the pulleys inside the Mountain.

When Thorin noticed, he did nothing but grunt in acknowledgement. In this, Fheon tried to find relief. At least he cared enough about her to not force her to stay on the hammer job. She shared her musings with Bilbo, and he agreed.

About three hours into the work, she heard Thorin’s voice boom from within the Mountain.

“I want this fortress made safe by sun-up,” he said. “This Mountain was hard-won. I will not see it taken again.”

And then another, more youthful voice—Kili’s: “The people of Lake-town have nothing! They came to us in need. They have lost everything.”

“Do not tell me what they have lost. I know well enough their hardship.” Thorin scoffed. “Those who have lived through dragon-fire should rejoice!” He said something in a more quiet voice, too low for Fheon to have heard past the bustling dwarves and Gloin and Dwalin’s pounding. And then he bellowed, “Bring more stone to the gate!”

Frowning, Fheon shared a doubtful look with Bilbo, which soon disappeared when they re-entered the Mountain. She watched as the dwarves piled stone upon stone, a pitiful excuse for a gate, but something that would defend them from horses and men.

Thorin helped in the piling fervently, and Fheon would not have felt so helpless if she had been sure that he was only doing so to protect his kin, not to protect his gold.


	30. Erebor V

The sun had already broken on the horizon when they finished fortifying the front entrance.

Fheon's legs were sore from walking back and forth and pushing against such heavy loads. The turkeys Kili, Fili, Nori, Gloin, and Bifur had caught the day before had not been eaten yet, and so Bombur cooked it for a hearty breakfast—their reward for their hard work.

Fheon's hand shook as she brought up a piece of meat into her mouth. The turkey was nice and fatty, and she licked the juices from her lips. Beside her, Bilbo was eating with equal vigor, and so were the dwarves.

Gloin stared up at the wall of stone as he ate, with a gleam of pride in his eyes. "Not a bad night's work."

She smiled slightly and could not help but to feel proud as well. She had never before built anything in her life like the barrier they had assembled overnight. It was not perfect, with diamond gaps in the stone upon every stack, but it would have to do.

For some reason, the dwarves that had finished eating were sharpening their axes and swords. The sharp sound of grinding metal pierced Fheon's eardrums, making her uncomfortable. She was finished with her food as well, and watched with confusion (and perhaps slight dismay) as Fili sharpened his axe with a whetstone. She opened her mouth to ask why he was doing so, if only to confirm her suspicions, but stopped herself when Thorin strode past her.

"Come on," he said, climbing the boulders up the front gate to the overhang above. The dwarves hastily followed after him, but Fheon trailed behind the group with Bilbo. They seemed to be the only ones not looking forward to a conflict with the people of Lake-town.

Once atop the gate, Fheon was startled to find row upon row of warriors standing on the ruins of Dale. Armed with spears and shields, the sunlight bounced off their golden armor as if they were made of water. They were elves. Of that, Fheon had no doubt. They stood too still, were too disciplined, for them to be dwarves. And it was not the people of Lake-town either, for there was no way they could have been able to salvage such flawless armor overnight.

If she had to guess, it was the army of King Thranduil that was standing before her. His was the closest Elven kingdom apart from Rivendell, which was hundreds of miles away.

The sound of horse hooves reached her ears. Soon, a single rider appeared astride a white horse, running down the road leading to the Mountain. Clouds of dust trailed behind it as it ran, stopping just before the stone gates of Erebor. Fheon saw that the rider was, in fact, Bard the bargeman. Her skin bristled as she remembered their last encounter—her panic, her vulnerability. It was not an experience she wished to repeat.

"Hail, Thorin, Son of Thrain!" said Bard. "We are glad to find you alive beyond hope."

Thorin ignored this attempt at mature conversation, much to Fheon's displeasure, and called back, "Why do you come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain armed for war?"

"Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in, like a robber in his hold?"

"Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed!"

"My Lord," Bard continued with the same, calm tone, "We have not come to rob you, but to seek fair settlement." His horse shifted beneath him. "Will you not speak with me?"

Surprisingly, Thorin then inclined his head as a gesture of acceptance. But before he climbed down the steps, he said to Dwalin, "Send the raven."

Fheon watched as Dwalin whistled. A pitch black raven settled on his thick forearm. He pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket, rolled it up, and tied it to the raven's leg, like how Elijah would do it. Then he muttered something in Khuzdul to the animal, before letting it fly off.

"To whom did you send it to?" asked Fheon, staring after the raven.

"Dain, Thorin's cousin. The Lord of the Iron Hills," Dwalin answered. "He will come and fight with us, if war is inevitable."

Her stomach clenched.

Following suit after the Company, she and Bilbo climbed down the stairs with light steps. Perhaps the dwarves wanted to hear what Thorin had to say without him knowing that they could hear. She only hoped that he would not be too upset afterwards. When they reached solid ground again, they found Thorin standing by the wall of stone, speaking through a gap. Bard, presumably, was on the other side.

"… your threats do not sway me," Thorin was saying. His voice was composed, but judging from his stance and the way his hands were clenched into fists, he was feeling much more anger than he dared to show.

Bard's voice faintly echoed down the hole. "What of your conscience? Does it not tell you our cause is just? My people offered you help. And in return, you brought upon them only ruin and death."

"When did the men of Lake-town come to our aid but for the promise of rich reward?" Thorin snapped.

"A bargain was struck!"

"A bargain? What choice did we have to barter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom?" A shudder ran down Fheon's spine; Thorin had a point. His voice dropped to almost a whisper and he tilted his head. "You call that a fair trade? Tell me,  _Bard the Dragon-Slayer_ "—a faint gasp came from the other side of the wall—"why should I honor such terms?"

"Because you gave us your word," said Bard. "Does that mean nothing?"

Then slowly, as if in a trance, Thorin peeled himself away from the gap and leaned against the wall. Bard's face entered the view of Fheon, small and far away, blocking out the sun. Fheon met the bargeman's eyes with her hard ones for only a moment, before looking to Thorin. He raised his head, somewhat cautiously, and looked at the Company grouped before him. Only a mere second afterward, he seemed to come upon his decision.

Tilting his head slightly so that his voice would travel easier to Bard, he said, "Be gone! Ere our arrows fly!"

Bard's face scrunched up in anger and he pounded his hand against the stone wall. With a low growl, he whirled around and mounted his horse once more. The Company watched through the gap as Bard turned into a mere speck in the horizon.

Exasperated, Fheon whirled on Thorin only to find him already climbing back up the wall.

She thundered after him and, while they were still the only ones on the overhang, demanded, "You would go to war?"

"Yes," he replied without looking at her. He seemed to be glaring at the army of elves hundreds of yards away.

"We've only thirteen dwarves and a hobbit—even Gandalf is no longer in our ranks."

"My kin from the Iron Hills will come."

"Is theirs an impressive amount of warriors?" She stepped up to him, and he finally met her steely gaze. "Those are  _elves_ , and several  _hundred_  angry fishermen. I am not certain the army you have sent will be enough to take them down, much less make them doubt themselves. We're outnumbered, Thorin."

To her annoyance, amusement crossed the King's face. He stepped up to her, getting them as close as they had been the previous night, and murmured, "You should be quick to learn, Lady Fheon, to never underestimate dwarves."

Then, he wrapped an arm around her waist—much to her surprise—and made her turn to look at the familiar dwarf faces that had gathered before them. She found Balin among their ranks and noticed a gleam in his eye.

"We have reclaimed Erebor," said Thorin. "Now, we defend it."

His hand, which rested above her hip, tightened slightly. Heat rushed up Fheon's neck, and while she was able to keep a composed expression on her face, the redness on her cheeks was undoubtedly very obvious to the dwarves standing in front of her.

* * *

 

She told Thorin that Thranduil's army, if their leader had any sense, would lay siege to the Mountain at dawn—followed by another statement of doubt considering whether or not the dwarves from the Iron Hills would arrive in time. He answered her in the same manner he did before, albeit less intimate, and even then, she gained no reassurance. Nevertheless, he ordered that the remaining hours of the day be spent preparing for battle. Fheon, though following his orders, was thinking of ways on how to stop the war.

If she could not stop it, then she would stall it, but what good would that do?

Whatever armor they found in the armory had collected dust and cobwebs over the years, losing its shine. The weapons were in very much the same state, but it would be harder to regain its sharpness and the temper of the swords. Fheon stood back and watched the dwarves try on different pieces of armor, looking for the ones that fit them perfectly. Bilbo stood beside her, and she tried to coax him into looking for his piece of armor as well.

"I will if you will," he retorted.

She scoffed lightly. "I'm not daft. Do you think the dwarves had forged armor for women? And even if they did, a dwarf's build is very much different from my own. Even their children are larger than me."

"You don't have to look for armor, just come with me."

"Would you like me to dress you as well?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Look, I'm going to look just as stupid as you would if you go looking for armor in there. I'm a hobbit! I'm not meant to wear armor and hold a sword. I can't even imagine myself wearing  _that_." He gestured to Kili, who had slipped on a chainmail hauberk and was holding a glistening iron breastplate to his chest.

Fheon imagined Bilbo wearing such a thing, and could not help but to agree with his reasoning. "Do you plan on staying here inside the Mountain, then, while we fight the battles outside?"

She raised a challenging eyebrow, and he looked at her as if she was mad. Nevertheless he said, "Fine," and then marched straight to Bofur, asking him for help in looking for armor. Fheon watched them walk off, disappearing behind the minor mass of bustling dwarves.

She made to return to her room, where her hauberk was. Knowing that it would be her only piece of armor on, apart for vambraces and greaves, she was not looking forward to the battle that lay ahead.

When she turned, however, she found her path blocked by the figure of Thorin. He was still several feet away, but even from that distance, she was able to tell that he was looking right at her. And dangling heavily by his hands was a piece of glinting armor.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she approached the Dwarf King warily and stared at the bodice in his hands. The closer she got, the more she was able to discern that the thing in his hands was not just any piece of regular dwarvish armor.

Just looking at the two slight upward curves at the chest, Fheon understood that it had been made for a woman. It seemed to have been forged to fit a slim body—slim by dwarf women's standards, at least. It was sleeveless, a one-piece. The spaulders were made of leather. The cuirass would cover front and back, held together at the spine by silver cords that might have been stronger than they looked; the cuirass travelled continuously downwards until Fheon realized that it was connected to the faulds, which would cover the waist until the higher portion of the thighs. The faulds did not seem to be completely iron, however, for when she brought a hand out to touch it, it bent beneath her fingertips, yet were as hard as steel.

Curious, she rubbed one of the silver cords between her fingers, speaking quietly. "What is this?"

"Many centuries ago," said Thorin, "there was a female dwarf named Gokukara. She was the only dwarf woman in history to ever see battle, and considering how rare our women are, it is most impressive. This was her armor." He raised it higher until it was in front of his face.

Hesitantly, she took it and looked down at it in wonder. "She lived in Erebor?"

"Before the time of Thror, but yes, she was a dwarf of Erebor."

She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "And you're giving this to me?"

"Gokukara believed that all women should have the chance to fight in battles, if they wanted to. She despised the women of her generation—the human ones—for she knew that they did nothing but cook and clean and follow around their husbands, which she also believed were useless activities." He nodded. "Yes, I think she would be more than happy that you be the first to be handed down her armor."

Surprise flooded her for a moment, followed by a sense of pride, but she was wise not to show it on her face.

"Try it on," said Thorin. "I am positive that it will fit you perfectly."

She nodded and then met the King's gaze for a short moment, before striding past him and making for her room. There, she slipped on her mail hauberk, and was about to wear the armor as well when she realized that she had absolutely no idea how to put it on.

Uncertainly, Fheon untied the cords at the back and then opened the cuirass as wide as it would go. She put her feet into the armor, placing them close together and then tugging the bodice up her waist until the cuirass was in the right position. She slipped her arms into the holes at the sides, thankful that the hems of the armor were not as sharp as they looked. She did not even try to redo the cords at the back, for she knew that it would be futile. She could ask help from Bilbo when the time for fighting came.

For another minute or two, she shifted here and there; holding the back of the cuirass together as she rolled her right shoulder, made swinging movements with her arm and even pretending to draw a bow. Once she was satisfied that the armor did, in fact, fit her perfectly, she dropped it back down to the floor and carefully stepped out of it.

"Thank you, Gokukara," she muttered to herself, admiring the craftsmanship of the dwarves.

What could Gokukara have done to become so renowned? Fheon thought about it for a moment and acknowledged that dwarves admired strength more than any other race, so Gokukara must have been very strong. Yet looking at her armor, she could not have been much larger than Fheon.

When she returned to the armory, she found Bilbo wearing a thin-looking white hauberk over his jumper. It could not have been any thicker than her own— which she had not yet removed—and she started questioning the sanity of the dwarves for having given him such a useless piece of clothing. It did not seem as if it would protect him from a wolf's teeth.

"What the bloody hell are you wearing?" she said, frowning.

"I know, I look stupid," he replied almost immediately. "But Thorin said that this was made of silver steel—Mithril—and that no blade can pierce it. So I thought, why not? Might as well take all the protection I can get."

"No blade can pierce it…" Fheon mused. "Would you care to test that?"

Bilbo hopped away from her, and she managed a smile. He gestured to her and asked, "How about you? I saw Thorin approach you earlier. Did he give you Mithril as well?"

She remembered that she had left Gokukara's armor at her room, finding it tedious to have brought it back to Thorin when he was just going to tell her to keep it. "No, he gave me one of their female warrior's armor," she replied. "Nothing special."

"Oh? Did it fit you?"

"It fit me perfectly—disturbingly so. You'd think it had been made for me and not the dwarf who'd worn it hundreds of years ago."

"He favors you—Thorin, I mean."

"You as well, if you hadn't noticed."

Bilbo's lips twitched up in a smile. He opened his mouth to say more, but then closed it again, his eyes flickering to something behind Fheon. She turned and saw Thorin standing there, a kind look on his face. No doubt, he had heard everything they had said, and Fheon was not sure whether she approved or not.

"They are gifts, tokens of our friendship," said the King, and then he threw what seemed to be a wary glance towards the dwarves in the armory. "True friends are hard to come by."

He placed each of his hands onto Fheon's and Bilbo's shoulders and led them farther away from the armory. Once the rest of the Company was a good ways away, he spoke urgently. "I have been blind, but now I begin to see. I am betrayed!"

"Betrayed?" said Bilbo. Fheon was able to notice the brief lapse between his and Thorin's speech. She dared not glance at the hobbit, however, fearing that Thorin would see it differently than she.

"The Arkenstone… One of them has taken it," Thorin hissed, a look of hurt and betrayal in his eyes. "One of them is false."

Beside her, Bilbo gulped almost inaudibly. "Thorin, the Quest is fulfilled," he said. "You've won the Mountain. Is that not enough?"

Fheon knew by the way he had immediately changed the subject that he had something to do with the Arkenstone. She would speak to him about it later, but not with Thorin nearby, for his wrath would be inevitable.

"Betrayed by my own kin…" said the King, shaking his head slightly as he looked at each of them in question. It touched her that she and Bilbo were the two people he trusted enough to tell them of his doubts, but it should not have been this way. He had been closer to Balin and Dwalin and Fili and Kili even before the Quest started, and now it was not so.

Bilbo continued to reason. "You made a promise to the people of Lake-town. Is this treasure truly worth more than your honor? _Our_ honor, Thorin—I was also there. I gave my word."

"And for that I am grateful. It was nobly done, but the treasure in this Mountain does not belong to the people of Lake-town." He finished with a bite in his voice. In a single second, his gentle tone and kind eyes were replaced by the coldness of greed. "This gold… is ours… and ours alone." His breathing became shallow, and his eyes seemed to glaze over. "By my life, I will not part with a single coin." He took slow steps away from them, hunched over like a man who had grown up fumbling with a tiny silver piece. "Not one piece of it!"

He glared at them from across the hall as the rest of the Company passed by them, completely armed and holding their weapons, partially blocking their view. Fheon narrowed her eyes at Thorin. The dragon-sickness, she knew, had become worse. He returned her gaze as he melded into the Company, only looking away when they had to turn a corner.

Even though they were far enough away to not hear her, she ducked her head and spoke to Bilbo under her breath. "You have it." He nodded and she pursed her lips, conveying in her eyes the seriousness of his situation. "Hide it well, Bilbo."

"I will."

"I will speak with Thorin tonight. Perhaps I can change his mind."

"Perhaps," the hobbit agreed, and he must not have had any other ideas, for they drifted into a grim sort of silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the armor descriptions were a bit confusing. Truth be told, I was a bit confused too while I was writing it, so.


	31. Erebor VI

Fheon was reluctant to go to Thorin’s quarters, thinking that perhaps it would be unspoken of for her to visit him at such a late hour. However, she was not given the chance to ponder for long.

There came three loud knocks on her door, the same three knocks that had sounded on her door two nights before. She hesitated for a moment before walking over and turning the knob to reveal no one else but The King Under the Mountain.

“Good evening,” he greeted, and she nodded in acknowledgement. “May I come in?”

 _Ever the gentleman._ She stepped aside and let him walk into her room, closing the door behind him. Like before, he stood at the far end while she made her way to the bed.

“You look better,” he said.

She allowed a slight twitch of her lips. “I have been, thanks to your… insight about your brother. I’ve contemplated it and decided that Elijah indeed died a hero’s death.”

Thorin nodded. “His tale as well as yours will be told for the long years to come.” And then he raised an eyebrow. “If you would allow it, of course.”

At this, Fheon did not answer, and he walked closer to her. The intensity in his eyes had not disappeared and, at the moment, they had not yet glazed over because of the sickness. “Have you considered my offer?”

“Yes,” she slowly replied, “But… I’m afraid I am yet to come to a decision.”

“I understand.” A glint appeared in his eyes and he smiled slightly, saying, “I’ve brought something for you, to help with your decision.”

She frowned disapprovingly. “You’ve come here to bribe me? Flattering, but I won’t accept more than you promised me at the beginning of this Quest.”

“Will you accept less, then?”

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes when his smile only widened, and a chuckle reverberated in his throat. Slowly, his hand crept into the pocket of his trousers, and he pulled out a beautiful silver necklace. Ornaments the size of her thumb dangled from the thin chain, glittering like they had been made out of pure starlight.

Fheon stared. The necklace looked so fragile between the King’s thick fingers. “Where did you come upon this?”

“The Necklace of Lasgalen,” said Thorin. “This has been in the possession of my grandfather for as long as I can remember.”

“And you’re giving it to me?” She tore her gaze away from the necklace and scanned his face for any signs of corruption. At the moment, it seemed his affections for her were true, and it was more than she could have hoped for. Balin’s words rang true in her head: _“Anyone capable of love is capable of being saved.”_

Somewhat hesitantly, she took the necklace from Thorin and laid it upon her palm. The gems contrasted her copper skin tone. She ran her fingers across one of the ornaments, feeling the cool touch of the gems. “You’ve put me in a very compromising position, Thorin,” she muttered. “How very inconsiderate of you.”

Thorin flashed his teeth in a grin but was quick to sober. “I want you stay with us,” he said, “Very much so. I have no doubts that you would like to as well, but your duties bind you. I understand that. In the end, it is your choice.”

“Yes, it will be _my_ choice,” she agreed, and then carefully set the necklace down on the bed. “I need more time to think on it. However, I wanted to talk to you about something else, Thorin.”

“Oh?”

She paused for a moment, thinking her words through. With a sigh, she blurted it out. “It is about the war looming over our heads.”

He deflated slightly. The sparkle left his eyes. “Ah, that.”

“Can you not give Bard what he wants? It cannot be more than a few sacks full of gold. They just need enough to rebuild their lives, care for their families, perhaps to journey somewhere else where they can live.”

“You were there when I told Bilbo,” he retorted sharply. “The treasures here do not belong to the people of Lake-town, just as the Iron Hills do not belong to me!”

“You gave them your _word_. As the new king, is that not reason enough?”

“I’ve said it before: _I will not part with a_ single _coin_ —”

“Fine.” Quickly changing tactics, Fheon rose to her feet and advanced on him, eyes burning. “Say we go into war with the elves and the men of Lake-town. Say your army from the Iron Hills comes. We will be defeated, Thorin. I am sure of it. I hold nothing against your people, but think about even the _slightest_ chance that we will lose. Would you have the dwarves held against their wills by elves, the very race you’ve come to despise?”

A scowl crossed his face. “We would die before surrendering to the elves.”

“Exactly. Don’t you think enough blood has been shed already? The families in Lake-town who did not survive, _Elijah_... and your brother Frerin—”

She cut herself off when he growled. “I did not tell you his story for you to throw it about lightly,” he said. “Even if I did give Bard all the gold he wants, Thranduil will not walk away.”

“Why not?”

“There is a treasure here in Erebor that he too desires—not the gold, but gems.”

“Then give it to him, save your kin!”

“I cannot. I will _not_.”

“You are letting your foolishness, greed, and petty grudges cloud your judgement. It is the dragon sickness. It’s gotten to you, hasn’t it? I’m not the only one who has noticed, Thorin. And I will not name names, but almost half of the Company agree with me. You are not who you once were. Your decisions have become idiotic and imprudent—”

A feral shout erupted from his throat and suddenly he had his hands on her shoulders, gripping them painfully. Fheon was too surprised to do anything before he turned them around and shoved her against the wall.

Her spine hit the stone first. Pain lanced up her neck from her left shoulder. She yelped at the sudden discomfort and leaned against the wall for support, watching with eyebrows furrowed as Thorin turned away from her, holding his head in his hands.

His shoulders rose and fell as he breathed heavily, like earlier that day when Bilbo had spoken to him. She thought that perhaps he was fighting against the sickness—at least, she dared to hope. She could not help but to acknowledge the fact that she had gone too far. Her reasoning had become insults, and even the Thorin she had known before the dragon-sickness would have lashed out.

Cradling her left arm, she rekindled her patience; spoke in a calmer voice, “I do not come to you as an enemy, Thorin, but as a friend. My brother and I made a promise: to protect the Company from harm and to ensure the safety of the Quest. Now the Quest is fulfilled, but the Company is facing mortal danger. All of them may fight, they fight for _you_ , but not all of them will survive.”

There was a long pause. It was as though he didn’t hear her. “Since when has my council counted for so little to you?” she asked.

“Never,” he finally replied, voice hoarse. “It’s never…” He seemed to be in an ongoing internal battle. Fheon was not sure whether she should convene or not, but when she was about to, he had turned around again and was looking at her in shock. “Fheon?”

She acknowledged him with a sharp nod.

He blinked once, twice, and then was in front of her in seconds. “It was not my intention to hurt you. I swear by my life,” he said quickly.

“It’s the sickness, Thorin,” she explained. “It’s corrupting you.”

“No, I… I am stronger than Thror, stronger than this…” He shook his head. “It is not the sickness.”

“Will you not listen to anyone but yourself?”

Sighing, Fheon brushed past him and came to sit on the bed once more, placing a hand over her shoulder so as to warm the bruise. She could feel it throbbing beneath her fingers.

Thorin came to sit beside her. “Let me see.”

There was an urgent tone in his voice, perhaps because he knew that her shoulder had collided with the wall. Still, Fheon was hesitant to remove her gambeson. She wore nothing else underneath except for her chest wrapping, and that barely covered her stomach.

She regarded the King, taking in the concern in his eyes—there was no lust—and then grudgingly undid the laces of her gambeson. Once it was finished, she slipped off the left sleeve so that he could see the reddish-purple blotch by her collarbone. It had faded slightly, though not enough for it to be considered large improvement.

She remained unmoving as Thorin’s eyes bore into her shoulder. He raised his hand and touched the bruise. Noticing her grimace, he immediately pulled his arm back. She started tying the laces of her gambeson together again, not meeting his eyes.

When she was halfway done, her fingers faltered in their continuous movements when Thorin placed his hand on the crook of her neck. Warmth seemed to radiate from his fingers and seep into her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her to hold his gaze. The sickness had all but gone, replaced by an intensity that was familiar to Fheon. She had seen it before during their first nightly encounter, when he stood by her door and would not leave.

If possible, the passion in his eyes now surmounted what he had shown before. The longing for his closeness had already returned and it was impossible not to hold her breath.

He pulled her face closer until she was craning her neck, and then slowly, ever so slowly, began drawing himself closer as well. While his gaze flickered from her eyes to her lips, she remained solely aware of the brilliant orbs of blue that were before her. At the second their lips were nearly touching, neither of them offered to halt the moment like last time, though Fheon was uncertain.

Taking advantage of her indecision, Thorin closed the gap between them and pressed his mouth against hers.

The sensation that flashed across her body was unlike anything she had ever felt before. It was stronger than pain, easily overshadowing the hollowness she felt after Elijah’s passing. Electricity coursed through her veins.

His beard tickled but the feeling was easy to ignore. His gentle grip remained on her chin and kept her there, even when he pulled away an inch. She looked at him just as he looked at her, completely aware of her heart pounding against her ribcage like Dwalin’s hammer.

There was a questioning look in his eyes. As an answer, she jutted her chin out the slightest bit, and his mouth was back against hers in an instant.

A sigh escaped her lips, drawing out long and slow and no doubt bathing his face with her breath. He hummed in return.

Fheon had been kissed only once before, by Hiram, but she had been so young, and it was a playful sort of kiss, the kind shared between family. She did not know whether to rejoice or not that her first _real_ kiss was with the dwarf king. But she was proud to know that the amount of affection she felt for Thorin was not caused by hormones or desperation. She had spent an entire year with him, almost died with him many times, and shared in his grievances and his happiness. The emotions moving through her were indescribable.

When he pulled away again, her breaths came out in pants. Her lips felt swollen. Thorin was in very much the same state. He pressed his forehead against hers, brushing their noses together. She realized that he held her face between his hands, now, instead of just her chin.

Still breathing heavily, he muttered something in Khuzdul, something that contained so much truth and passion that she wanted so badly to know what it meant.

“You cannot bring yourself to return to The Shire,” he then said. “Once you realize this, I will make you my queen... But I am afraid you cannot dissuade me from my decision considering this war. If Thranduil wants a fight, he will get it.” He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I will not let you fall, _amrâlimê_.”

“Wait… what?”

It took a considerably long while for her to escape from her daze. By the time she did, Thorin had already gone out the door. Fheon shot to her feet, running after him. She swung it open and threw her head left and right, but Thorin had been quick to disappear from sight.

She cursed under her breath. After making sure the Necklace of Lasgalen was still on her bed, she shut the door and searched for Bilbo, all the while finishing tying the laces on her gambeson.

As she rushed down the hall in a quick pace, she came to the conclusion that having a deep affection for probably one of the most stubborn dwarves on the planet made her as helpless as an ant beneath a boot.

After his kiss, he had her wrapped around his finger, completely at his mercy. It made her feel ashamed, being distracted so easily, yet absolutely giddy at the same time.

Something that was both a frown and a smile appeared on her face, and she nearly tripped over her own feet.

Fheon tried to recall which room Bilbo had said he was in. She had asked him before, but because of its unimportance considering everything else that was happening, she soon forgot. Thinking quickly, she started at the direction of the throne room, walked past all the other doors, and knocked on the last one on the left.

It was a lucky guess.

“Fheon?” Bilbo blinked in surprise. “What—?”

“Thorin will not listen,” she quickly explained, “Not even to me. We have to find another means of stopping Thranduil from marching his troops forward.”

“I only know how we could ease the anger of Bard, but not Thranduil.”

“Then that will have to do.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “Do you have it?”

When he showed confusion, she raised her eyebrows expectantly and tilted her head, pursing her lips. “Oh!” he said, and then patted his left chest. “Yes, yes, I have it.”

“You leave for the Elven encampment immediately.”

“What—tonight?”

“You have better chances of not being caught in the dark. Didn’t you know that?” He huffed, and she smiled lightly. “Besides, we can’t risk waiting any longer. Thranduil wants to take the Mountain as soon as he can, which means he will most likely attack at dawn. If we give _it_ to him, there’s an off chance that we could stall for time, at least until the dwarves from the Iron Hills arrive.”

They walked briskly down the hallways, stopping by the storage room to get some rope before continuing to the front gate. When they had reached the overhang, with the rope already thrown down the side of the Mountain, Bilbo expressed his concerns.

“Thorin will have my head for this,” he said.

“ _Our_ heads,” she corrected, fastening one end of the rope around a sharp rock jutting out from beneath the staircase.

The hobbit scoffed. “How very reassuring of you to say that.”

“I’ll protect you from his wrath, don’t worry. I’m just hoping I won’t kill him in the process… There.” She gave the rope a hard tug, making sure that it held, before handing the length of it to Bilbo. He took it and positioned himself by the edge of the overhang, hands trembling slightly.

He inhaled a shaky breath and then lowered himself to start scaling down the wall.

It was not a considerably high summit, if Fheon thought it about it, and he reached the boulders below in seconds. Although, halfway down, he slipped slightly and gave a frightened yelp. A tiny rock broke away from the wall and landed in the water, and the sound of it pierced through the still night air, making Fheon flinch.

She noticed Bilbo start rushing away as soon as he was on the ground, and catcalled at him in a hushed whisper, “Oi! Wait for me!”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he replied, equally quiet.

Fheon did not reply, only wrapped her hands around the rope.

She was slower than Bilbo, for her shoulder offered problems she had not thought to consider. She arrived at the bottom in about a minute. She hopped onto the giant stone head which covered most of the distance of the water-filled trough, and then slid down it to take her place beside Bilbo on solid land.

Wordlessly, they started on the long jog towards Dale.

* * *

 

The torch lights within the city became brighter and brighter, until finally the two of them were standing in front of the sea of rubble that made up the once respectable walls of Dale.

Quiet as mice, Fheon and Bilbo began jumping from one piece of stone to another. Fheon made sure only to jump onto the ones that were solely on the ground, not piled on top another rock, for she did not want to tip it with her extra weight. Bilbo was less careful than her; he was lighter.

They literally scurried through enemy lines. Despite it being late, there were still many soldiers milling about the encampment. Originally, Fheon had done her best to sneak past them unseen, but with a wrinkle of his nose and a puff of his chest, Bilbo undermined her previous plan and simply strolled through the rows of tents without fear of being seen. Both elves and men saw him, but they paid him no mind as if he was nothing more than a stray dog.

It occurred to Fheon, then, that Bilbo had remained invisible within the duration of their visit in the Halls of Thranduil, except for their escape. No one knew who he was. Fheon, however, had her face in plain sight all throughout the day they were there. Although, the guards of the palace were different from the army Thranduil had summoned. Perhaps they had never seen her face before… lest Tauriel or Thranduil’s son be among their ranks, of course, which would not opt well for either Bilbo or Fheon.

Yet, seeing as neither of those two elves was in sight, she decided to take a chance. Straightening her back, she forced a confident air about herself and made herself look taller. She followed after Bilbo in long strides. As she had expected, the men of Lake-town threw odd glances at her way, but the elves did not. They only perceived her to be one of the survivors.

Biting back a smirk, she ventured with Bilbo deeper and deeper into the camp. To the heart, where Thranduil was sure to be.

Before they reached it, though, an old man’s familiar voice reached their ears: “You, bowman! Do you agree with this? Is gold so important to you? Would you buy it with the blood of dwarves?”

Bilbo walked by a gap between two rows of tents, and sure enough, there was Gandalf, looming above the considerably tall Bard. Fheon nodded for the hobbit to keep going, and together they advanced towards the two familiar figures.

“It will not come to that,” said Bard. “This is a fight they cannot win.”

By then, they were merely a few feet away. Bilbo very boldy brushed past a group of elf-soldiers and scurried towards the direction of Gandalf and Bard. Fheon could only stare on, helpless, as he made himself seen.

“That won’t stop them!” argued the hobbit. “You think the dwarves will surrender? They won’t. They will fight _to the death_ to defend their own.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf exclaimed, “Perfect timing for a burglar. How in Middle Earth did you get out of Erebor?”

“A story for another time,” Fheon explained quickly, walking up from behind Bilbo. “We have to speak with Thranduil. It is urgent.”

Her arrival was met with equal surprise and glee from Gandalf, while Bard only frowned. “Ah, Fheon,” said Gandalf. “Very well, I will take you to him.” He strode past them, and Fheon and Bilbo were quick to follow.

Looking over her shoulder, she noticed Bard not walking with them. She motioned to him with a jut of her chin. “You’ll come as well,” she said in a blank tone. “We have your prize.”

The crease in his eyebrow remained. “Fheon—”

She did not wait for him to finish, already having turned around and trailed after Gandalf.

The trip to Thranduil’s tent was short. Apparently, she and Bilbo had already passed by it once before. It looked like any other of the Elven tents, none the more regal, yet it was only now that Fheon noticed the two elves standing guard at the entrance. She pursed her lips.

Gandalf stepped forward and conversed with the guards in Elvish. One of them entered the tent and came out a minute later, opening the entrance flap for them. Gandalf went inside first, followed by Bard and, more uncertainly, Bilbo and Fheon.

Within the tent were a maple desk and a chair. The area was well lit with many bulbs offering light, the likes of which Fheon remembered from the palace in Mirkwood. Thranduil stood at one end of the tent, his hands clasped behind him and an unhappy look on his face.

Grudgingly Fheon bowed, but said nothing. The Elven King turned his back on her and walked to sit behind the maple desk. “If I’m not mistaken, this is the Ranger that aided in the escape of the dwarves,” he switched his gaze to Bilbo, “and the Halfling who stole the keys to my dungeons from under the nose of my guards.”

“Yes,” Fheon said without reproach. Bilbo echoed her words, though with much more awkwardness. He did not look to be afraid though, only nervous.

“Sorry about that,” he added, eliciting a small smile from her. Thranduil set his jaw, and she might have seen the corner of Bard’s lips turn up slightly.

Thranduil returned his attention to Fheon. “And I thought we were getting along quite nicely.” Fheon bit the inside of her cheek to keep from voicing out a sharp retort. He then tilted his head. “If I may ask, where is your brother?”

At this, her gaze turned hard. Her hands clenched into fists behind her. From the corner of her eye, she caught Bard straighten up on his stool. Bilbo lowered his head to stare at his feet.

“Yes,” said Gandalf, “I would like to know that as well. Did he remain at Erebor with the dwarves?”

“No,” Fheon replied, barely being able to keep her voice steady. “He would be at the bottom of the ruins of Lake-town as we speak, King Thranduil.”

Her statement was met with a stunned silence, more from Gandalf than Thranduil, who only pursed his lips and said, “Ah,” though even he seemed troubled upon hearing such news.

“How?” said Gandalf. “What happened?”

Fheon was surprised that Bard hadn’t already told them. “He stayed behind while we continued on to Erebor, you see,” she said. “When the dragon awoke, it laid siege to Lake-town and killed more than half of its citizens, including Elijah.” She stared at a point just past Thranduil’s ear. The ache in her chest had returned, but she was determined not to let it distract her from her task.

“I would prefer not to speak of his passing,” she added quietly, “if it be allowed.”

“Given,” Thranduil replied, cocking an eyebrow. “But if I may, you are beginning to speak like him as well.”

Fheon said nothing.

Bilbo, sensing the ineptness of the silence, cut into the conversation. Stepping forward and digging into the pocket of his coat, he said, “We came to give you… this.” He pulled out a circular object that Fheon knew to be the Arkenstone, though it was wrapped in cloth.

He removed the fabric to reveal a glowing white orb. As the cloth fell away, the Arkenstone seemed to shine brighter, with tendrils of each and every color seeming as though they were moving within the stone.

For a moment, Fheon was stunned by its dazzling beauty. She shook herself out of her stupor as Thranduil rose from his seat.

“The Heart of the Mountain,” he breathed aloud.“The King’s Jewel.”

Bard came closer to the stone as well, staring not in awe, but in satisfaction. “And worth a king’s ransom,” he said. Fheon shared a look with Bilbo just as the bargeman turned his gaze to the hobbit. “How is this yours to give?”

“I took it as my 14th share of the treasure,” said Bilbo. Fheon managed a small smile.

“Why would you do this?” Bard asked. “You owe us no loyalty.”

“I’m not doing it for you.” Bilbo shook his head with pursed lips, seemed to ponder his next words. “I know dwarves can be obstinate and pigheaded and… difficult. We know better than most.” He gestured to Fheon, who still said nothing. “They’re suspicious and secretive with the worst manners you can possibly imagine. But they are also brave, and kind, and loyal to a fault. I’ve grown very fond of them, and I would save them if I can… Now, Thorin values this stone above all else. In exchange for its return, I believe he will give you what you are owed. There will be no need for war!”

At this, Fheon broke her silence and nodded once, a glint in her eye. “Aye,” she agreed. “No more blood should be spilt.”

Thranduil and Bard exchanged looks, and then the Elven King glanced at her—not at her face, but at her body. She thought that perhaps she should not have worn a hauberk, lest they think that she was looking for battles, which she was not.

“Your contribution might save a lot of lives, Bilbo… Fheon,” said Bard.

“We will ponder on it,” added Thranduil. “Tomorrow, you will either rise to a serene morning or find the ground covered in blood.” His lip twitched up in a disturbing smile. “I suggest you prepare yourselves for either, just in case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to hell pretty quickly, so enjoy that kiss while you can.
> 
> Amrâlimê - my love


	32. Aforetime I

Thranduil ordered two of his elves to pitch up a tent for Fheon and Bilbo, which the two of them were going to have to share. She did not mind sharing with him much; she had shared a tent with Hiram and Elijah more than once, but Bilbo looked more uncomfortable than she wished. As the elves pitched the tent, she, Bilbo, and Gandalf stood back, not watching but not ignoring the elves’ work as well.

“Rest up tonight,” said Gandalf. “You must leave on the morrow.”

“Earlier than the morrow,” Fheon suggested. “Thorin might go looking for us.”

He shook his head. “No, not back to Erebor. Get as far away from here as possible.”

It took a long moment for his words to sink in.

“What?” said Bilbo. Gandalf looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, as if expectantly.

Fheon switched her gaze to the wizard and allowed a hard gleam into her eyes. “We’re not leaving.”

“Y-yes, you picked me as the fourteenth man,” Bilbo added. “I’m not about to leave the Company now!”

“There is no Company. Not anymore,” Gandalf insisted. “Imagine what Thorin would do when he finds out what you’ve done.”

Fheon scoffed. “He couldn’t kill Bilbo even if he tried. None of the dwarves would let him, and neither would I. We’re not afraid of him—”

“Well you should be.” Gandalf whirled around and gave her a dark look. “Don’t underestimate the power of gold. Gold over which a serpent has long brooded. Dragon-sickness seeps into the hearts of all who come near this Mountain.”

“I’ve not cared for gold ever since I was a little girl.”

“… Almost all.”

Gandalf motioned to a dark, hunched man that was walking past, calling him over. “Take these two to the kitchens and order them some warm food,” he ordered. “They’ve earned it.”

The man was as ugly as could be: bulging eyes, a large nose, and a thick unibrow. He had raven black hair that reached just below his jaw, looking _too_ slick, as if he had not taken a bath in ages. As he approached them, his neck was hunched forward, resulting in a noticeable bulge just at the top of his spine. Fheon did not want to stare at him any longer than needed, and so turned around and started walking, Bilbo at her side.

As she was making a mental note as to where their tent was being pitched, the faint voice of Gandalf registered in her ears: “Keep an eye on them. If they should try to leave, you tell me.”

Fheon frowned slightly, but otherwise pretended as if she had not heard. The hunched man caught up to them and brushed past her. She wrinkled her nose; he smelled strongly of raw fish.

“Move it,” he snapped. She threw dagger looks at the back of his head, but followed him anyway.

Bilbo was quiet throughout the walk and Fheon made no offer at conversation. She was busy plotting out the things that could happen in the morning. If the hunched man was as careless as he looked then it would be fairly easy to sneak back to the Mountain unnoticed by him. But problems would arise if Gandalf were to put _elves_ on guard by their tent, for their senses were even more acute than hers. If they did not see them, then they would hear them.

Despite all these things, however, sneaking back to Erebor was _essential_. They had to be with Thorin when the Arkenstone was presented to him, to help him make the right choice. At least Bilbo seemed as driven as she was to not let Gandalf’s protectiveness get in the way.

They would leave before dawn, while it was still dark. They could still gain a few hours of sleep beforehand. Fheon felt like she would finally be able to. The fatigue had been weighing down on her since the morning.

The hunched man led them to the dining pavilion, which had no walls but a long sheet of tinted orange cloth acting as ceiling, to shield them from the snow. Wooden tables had been set up, and Fheon could count that there were more than two dozen families taking up the pavilion.

She nodded gruffly to the hunched man. “What’s your name again?”

“Alfrid.”

The name sounded familiar to Fheon, and she soon realized that he had been the one who blocked their entry from Lake-town, whilst she and the dwarves were in barrels filled with fish, practically freezing to death. She gritted her teeth, gave him a death glare, and muttered, “We’ll take it from here.”

He pulled his lips up in a sneer, revealing yellow teeth. “Look, I don’t take orders from girly girls such as yourself. That wizard you’re with ain’t even my friend and he’s been ‘Alfrid here’ and ‘Alfrid there’ like a bloody lunatic. So if I were you, I’d shut up and take what food I give you.”

Beside her, she heard Bilbo make a soft clicking sound with his tongue. Fheon allowed herself a brief moment of amusement before easing onto her face a completely deadly expression—cold blankness. She stepped up to hunched man and glared daggers right into his eyes. The effect was immediate.

“And if _I_ were you,” she said, an icy edge in her words, “I would speak to me with more respect.” She turned but kept glaring at him from over her shoulder, and then she waved a hand. “Leave us.”

He did not object.

Bilbo stared after him, whistling lowly, and then looked at Fheon with wide eyes. Smirking, she put a hand on his shoulder and walked them to the long table at the end of the pavilion, where all the food was laid out. An old woman stood behind it, handing out plates and utensils. When she gave Fheon and Bilbo theirs, Bilbo gave her a reassuring smile while Fheon only nodded, though not unkindly. The food was still steaming hot when they got to it: slices of roast pig, mixed vegetables in runny brown soup, pearly white rice, and stalks of greens. There was a large, shallow bowl at the very end of the table holding what looked to be pieces of a baked turkey.

Fheon and Bilbo took portions of each dish and then sat at one of the very few tables that still had two free seats.

Two children sat with them, a boy and a girl, looking to be brother and sister. They were quiet. Fheon did her best to ignore them and focus on her food.

She was ravenous and finished in minutes, but she went back to the long table for seconds. When she returned to her table with Bilbo, she was relieved to find the children gone. They had left their plates, and she politely cleared them out. Sitting heavily on the stool, she continued eating in a much more reasonable pace.

Bilbo had not yet finished his first plate. “You have any alibis for us yet?” he asked quietly.

“Not here,” Fheon mumbled through a mouthful of rice. He nodded and said nothing more.

Once they were finished, they took their plates to the ones who were doing the dishwashing. Fheon felt like she should offer to help, but her fatigue overruled her and, in the end, she just walked away with a semi-guilty conscience.

“Do you remember where our tent is?” she asked Bilbo.

“Yes, I think so.”

“You go on ahead. I have to look for Gandalf.”

The hobbit frowned. “Why?”

“Thranduil did say there was still a slight possibility of war, yes?” She cocked an eyebrow and he nodded once. “And I don’t fully believe in my capability to fully convince Thorin to give Bard what he wants, nor do I believe in yours—no offense.”

“None taken,” he grumbled.

“If there is to be a battle tomorrow, I’d prefer to have full control of my shoulder when the elves are bombarding us with their arrows. Don’t you?”

“Can’t I come with you?”

Fheon regarded the hobbit for a long moment, before nodding. “Very well. Come on.”

* * *

 

They looked for the Grey Wizard for a considerably long while before finally stumbling upon him outside Thranduil’s tent. Fheon sighed, unhappy that she had not thought to look for him here sooner, before approaching him from behind and tapping his shoulder. He turned, hobbling in a way that was familiar to both Bilbo and Fheon, and looked at the two of them with a raised eyebrow.

“Fheon, good evening,” he said. “Has the food run out?”

“No,” said Fheon. “I was going to ask you to heal my shoulder.”

“The injury you received in the Goblin-tunnels?”

She nodded. “It’s been a constant problem to me. I can’t use my bow because of it.”

He grumbled incoherently against his smoking pipe, and then said, “And why would you want to use a bow now?”

“Don’t play stupid, Gandalf,” she chided, earning her a long-suffering smile that didn’t quite reach his aged eyes. “So, can you heal it?”

The wizard was quiet for a second before saying, “Describe the injury to me.”

She started explaining slowly, carefully, so as to not give Gandalf the wrong evidence. She wanted his magic to work as cleanly and efficiently as possible. From what she had heard, magic was a difficult and precise business. She found no relief from the lone fact that Gandalf was one of the most powerful wizards of the age; then she thought back on how he had brought Thorin practically back from the dead, and decided that perhaps she could give him more credit.

When she was finished, Gandalf puffed a ring of grey smoke out of his pipe and pulled it out of his mouth.

“Sit here,” he said, and sat Fheon down on a stool. “The spell I have in mind will not fully heal it, but it may… _clinch_ the broken bone back together, if you will.”

“… Alright.”

“Mind you, the adhesive I will cast won’t hold against the weight of another blow. You will be able to draw your bow just fine, but take care that you do not put it under much strain.”

_No promises,_ thought Fheon. “Understood.”

Gandalf placed his large hand on her left shoulder, applying very slight pressure. Fheon was surprised when she found that even _that_ hurt. She frowned as the wizard took his staff—which had been resting inside the crook of his elbow—and placed the tip of it above his free hand.

Almost instantaneously, a cool sensation spread from where he had placed his hand, like cold spreading up her skin from a single drop of icy water. It continued, and soon became itchy, like hundreds of pins were scratching her at once. She bit the inside of her cheek. The sensation ran until the hollow of her neck and down until her forearm.

Soon, she was refraining with all her willpower not to scratch her arm raw. But then the cool sensation disappeared from the base of her shoulder, replaced by a heat that was not scorching but not comfortable either. Pain suddenly flared up from where Gandalf’s hand was and it was as if someone was carving her shoulder from the inside out. Fheon could not bite back the groan that escaped her mouth.

Gandalf’s fingers clenched around her shoulder, and then the pain disappeared altogether. The wizard removed his hand. Fheon struggled to regain her breath.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “There were some bone fragments I had to get rid of.”

Still panting slightly, Fheon repeated, “ _‘Get rid of’_?”

He said nothing more, only nodded at her and told her to try moving it around. She did as he asked, swung it here and there, bent her arm and pulled it behind her head, rolled her shoulders—there was no pain, just a slight ache, like something she would feel from sore muscles.

Despite herself, her face brightened up with a smile. “Much better,” she said. “Thank you.”

Gandalf waved her gratitude away. “Back to your tent now. Get some sleep.”

“Aye,” said Fheon, turning and walking with Bilbo to where they came from. Soon, the Grey Wizard was gone from their view and they were left alone with the hundreds of unfamiliar faces passing them by. Fheon marveled at the handiwork of Gandalf, bending her shoulder here and there for another minute before finally heeding his words of not putting his adhesive under too much strain.

They were only halfway back to their tent, however, when the sound of approaching footsteps registered to her. She ignored it at first, thinking that perhaps it was just another man from Lake-town looking to get to his own tent. It could also have been an elf.

She only came to a stop when someone called her name. It was a very familiar voice, the owner of which she was on even ground with, but not particularly friendly.

She had already turned around when Bard rushed up to her.

“Fheon!” he repeated, slightly breathless. “Where were you headed?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you want?”

“I have a message for you.”

“Oh? From who?”

“Elijah.”

All traces of interest evaporated. She straightened up and fixed him with an icy glare. “Walk away, bargeman, unless you want an early wound even before the battle has even begun.”

“He told me just before he fell. I swear, I knew nothing about it beforehand—”

“ _Bard_.”

“He knew, Fheon. He knew that Smaug would attack Lake-town. That was why he told Thorin that he should stay to watch over the dwarves instead of you. He was protecting _you_.” The bargeman paused for a second, and then continued, “He did not want to part with you in bad terms. He said he was sorry, and asked that I tell you no matter the cost, and I have. Do not hate me for it.”

Fheon’s hands were visibly quivering now—not because of rage or sadness or betrayal; not because of any emotion she knew the name to. Heaviness weighed down on her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. Through gritted teeth, she managed to say, “Go… _now_ …”

Bard looked at her for a while longer, a sad, almost sympathetic look on his face, before turning around and walking away. Fheon clenched her hands into fists and whirled around, heading for their tent with wide strides. Bilbo followed beside her, walking quickly to match her pace. Oftentimes she would sense him looking up at her but she was much too emotional to care.

Quickly and wordlessly, they arrived at their tent. Fheon barely noticed the elf standing by the entrance until he opened the entrance flaps for her. She regarded him a moment, and then entered the tent and sat cross-legged at one corner. She turned her back on the entrance just as Bilbo came in.

Her thoughts rushed back to her last conversation with Elijah, at the docks of Esgaroth.

_“Someone has to stay and protect the dwarves, Fheon.”_

_“They have weapons. They can take care of themselves.”_

_“And what of their reputation? Who will keep them from making foolish mistakes, like robbing another armory or—”_

_“You are making a foolish mistake. Do you really think I would allow us to be separated like this?”_

_“True siblings can work when they are apart just as well as they can when they are together. Father was the one who said that, long ago. Do you remember?”_

Tears gathered in her eyes and a choked sob tore its way out of her throat.

_“Promise me… Promise me we will see each other again.”_

_“You’re overreacting, sister! I’ll always be with you. Enjoy your journey! And remember… The Company goes first.”_

She opened her mouth, though covered it with her hand, in a voiceless howl. She suddenly understood. _He didn’t promise._

A soft shifting of fabric came from behind her, and she knew that it was Bilbo. She refused to acknowledge him. Not yet. And he remained silent for as long as she did, for two minutes, for four, for five—perhaps even an hour passed, she couldn’t be sure—and she was grateful.

Eventually, however, he spoke: “Fheon?”

“You know our last words to each other,” she said, almost whispering. “You were there.”

“I was, I remember.”

“I didn’t want to part with him in bad blood, but…” She sniffled. “I was so angry… so betrayed. He hadn’t told me about it beforehand. It wasn’t like him…”

“He wanted to keep you safe.”

“I understand that,” she hissed. “But I don’t understand why he didn’t ask me to stay with him… I could have, and we both could have gotten out of there alive.”

“You don’t know that. There would still have been a chance of both of you dying, and Thorin didn’t need that.”

“ _Thorin_ didn’t need that—” Her hands tightened around the sides of her head as she struggled to cope with the fact that her brother _knew_ that he would die and that he had stayed behind _willingly_. Her breathing turned shallow again and she struggled to compose herself, hastily swiping at her cheeks and clearing her throat. Bilbo placed his hand on her shoulder and she almost fell apart again. Almost.

Faintly, she heard the hobbit sigh. “I don’t know how hard this must be for you. I really don’t,” he said. “But as I recall, his last words were, _‘The Company goes first.’_ Am I correct?”

“Yes,” she was able to say in a steady voice.

“Then, if I were in your shoes, which I’m not,” Bilbo added quickly, “But if I were, then I would think that it would probably be a good idea to respect those last words.”

She forced herself to nod. “Do what he would want me to do.”

“Exactly.”

With less difficulty than before, Fheon collected herself. She swiped at her cheeks again, and then her noise, and straightened up in her seat. Over her shoulder, she informed Bilbo, “I haven’t gotten any sleep in three nights. Did you know that?”

She knew that it was a petty excuse—true, but petty nonetheless. But the hobbit only nodded and said in a not-so-serious tone, “Ah, that’s why,” which coaxed a half-hearted laugh out of her.

“Yes.” She looked at him sternly. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this, Bilbo. Get some sleep.”

“I’m not the one who hasn’t slept in three nights,” he retorted. “No, you go to sleep. I’ll stay awake a while longer.”

It was futile to resist him, she knew. She nodded once and then lowered herself onto one of the sleeping bags the elves had laid out for them, careful not to show too much of her blotched face to Bilbo. Once she was in a comfortable position, she mumbled into the silence, “Thank you, Bilbo.”

He was quiet for a moment before he finally said, “You’re welcome, Fheon.”

For the first time since finding out about Elijah’s death, Fheon felt fine. Not at all perfect or completely serene—the after-effects of his passing were still there, at the back of her head—but something was different. She felt lighter, no longer so constricted or tortured about the fact that Elijah had died for her. He had done so of his own free will, which, she understood now, was because of his love for _her_.

Yes, she still felt that it was a foolish decision on his part, but it was a foolish decision made out of concern. She knew that it would do no good for her to be angry with his protectiveness now. She’d spent too long wallowing in her own self-pity that she had forgotten to heed his final words.

_The Company goes first._

Whatever he thought was going to happen, he had trusted her to do what was right.

With this in mind, she closed her eyes and fell asleep as easily as she would have if Elijah had been lying right beside her.


	33. Aforetime II

It was as though Fheon had just allowed her eyelids to slip shut when Bilbo shook her head. But she asked him how long they had slept, and he made an approximated guess of at least four hours. Then, she asked him how he had been able to wake up in the first place, and he pointed to the entrance flap of their tent.

Standing outside, silhouetted by the torch light, were two guards. Elven guards at that, made apparent by the bulk of their forms. This was exactly the kind of situation Fheon had been hoping to avoid.

Cursing under her breath, she racked her brain for any excuse they could use. Several seemed adequate enough, made sense, despite the fact that the sun hadn’t even risen yet. In a stroke of genius, she remembered a certain trinket Bilbo had in his pocket. She thought it was as good an idea as any.

“Do you think we could use that ring of yours?” she asked.

Bilbo looked at her with an angry expression, one of which she had _never_ seen from him before. “No!” he said, and then, seeming to just realize that he had raised his voice, ducked his head. In a much quieter tone, he added, “You cannot.”

She noticed the way he had used ‘you’ instead of ‘we’. Suspicion clawed at her belly. “Why not?” She tried to sound as innocent as possible.

“Because you _can’t_ and you _shouldn’t_.” There it was again: _you_ can’t. “It’s _my_ ring. _I_ found it. I’m not gonna let anyone else use it. It’s _mine_.” A hiss was evident in his words and a look of pure hatred crossed his face.

“What’s gotten into you?” said Fheon, leaning forward to get a better look at him. His face appeared haggard. It hadn’t been like that the night before. Had something happened while she was asleep?

As if waking up from a terrible dream, Bilbo shook his head vigorously. His face cleared up. “I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered as a crease appeared on his forehead. Somewhat unconsciously, his hand drifted to his pocket and he dipped his fingers inside, to hold the ring. “It’s just, I-I think it would be best if we look for another solution, other than… other than the-the ring, um…”

He trailed off and Fheon narrowed her eyes. “Alright…” _Has the dragon-sickness gotten to him?_ she wondered. _Why not me?_ “Well, I suppose I do need to go to the girl’s private room… and you need to get something to drink, yes?” She forced herself to smile reassuringly, to cock a knowing brow.

He caught up quickly enough. “Good, good.”

“Meet me at the walls then?”

“Okay.”

Fheon nodded once, and regarded him for another brief moment before slipping out of the tent.

The elves did not question where she was going, which was not expected, but just in case, she rubbed her eyes, pretending to have just woken up, and said in a groggy murmur, “Bathroom.”

She walked on the paths that led deeper into the encampment, wandering around slightly, as if lost—to make sure; if anyone was following her, then they would fall for her trickery and think that she was _looking_ for the restroom. She arrived at the dining pavilion. As it turned out, there was a port-a-potty there.

Coincidence or not, she entered it anyway and did her business; she stayed inside for a while longer than necessary, hoping to undermine the confidence of anyone who could have been trailing her. She flushed and then headed back out again.

Quickly, she rushed behind a row of tents and continued towards the back exit of the city, where there was sure to be less sentries.

It was no easy task; more elves were awake than she’d expected. Ultimately, she ended up having to remove her hauberk, fold it, and press it close against her chest. It had been making too much noise, reflected too much light. With only her evergreen gambeson to be seen, it was much easier to blend with the shadows.

Upon reaching the back gates, she was relieved to find that she was correct. There were no guards at all standing by the archway.

With pursed lips, Fheon placed her hauberk over her right shoulder and began scaling the mountain of rubble. With her newly healed shoulder, it was considerably easy for her to get to the top of the mount. She stayed at the center of it, away from either of the two torches that illuminated the walls.

As soon as she reached the ground at the other side of the archway, she ran to the front gates of the city, using the walls as her guide. It took her nearly five minutes, sprinting all the while, and when she arrived there, Bilbo was sitting atop a boulder, looking as cool as could be.

“What took you so long?” he asked, sounding very serious.

Fheon stared at him oddly, thinking of how he could have gotten out so easily, and the answer dawned on her in seconds. “You used the ring, didn’t you?”

“… Yes,” he said in the same manner he had answered Thranduil earlier than night. She was still irritated with him for not letting her go with the easy way as well, but she gained some sort of relief from the fact that he was back to his usual self.

“Never mind,” she said, pulling her hauberk back over her head. “We have to hurry. The sun will be up soon.”

“Are we going to walk all the way?”

She nodded with a grudging scowl. Her legs ached as much as his from the long jog they made last night and they had barely gotten enough sleep to bring strength back to their limbs. “Unless, of course, you were able to steal a horse as well?” She cocked an eyebrow, and the hobbit shrugged.

“Well, we could. We’ve enough time, and the horse would get us to the Mountain quicker.”

“We could… But you wouldn’t be able to get him past the rubble without anyone noticing.”

He grunted in agreement. Together, they jogged towards the direction of Erebor, looming in the horizon almost hauntingly. The terrain they had to run across and up was mainly rocky, so there were no predators.

They did not find the need to hunt. The feast they had been presented the night before was still somewhat present in their stomachs. And even if they wanted to, they had no weapons. They’d left it at the Mountain.

When they arrived at the ruined, marble hall that led to front entrance, they slowed to a brisk walk. The sun had not yet fully risen, though its light had turned the sky a subtle purple. A minute or two could be spared to regain breath.

Fheon pounded on her chest and released a low huff, trying to remove the heaviness weighing down on her ribcage. Beside her, Bilbo nearly tripped over his feet a few times in his exhaustion. He pulled out a small flask from the inside of his coat. A sloshing sound came from within that suggested it had been filled to the brim.

“I stole this from the kitchens,” said Bilbo. “It’s not much, but we can drink more when we get inside the Mountain.”

He handed the flask to Fheon, who pulled off the lid and took a large gulp. She nearly spat out the contents in surprise. It was not water, it was mead. Warm mead. Her throat burned but her thirst had been slightly quenched. She looked inquiringly at Bilbo and he shrugged.

“The dwarves have rubbed off on me.”

“I bet they have,” she managed to croak out. He took the flask from her and took a swig as well, before placing the lid back on and returning it into his pocket.

By that time, they had stopped to regard the trench before them. There used to be a bridge that led to the gates, but Thorin had destroyed it using the head of one of the stone statues. Now, the head could act as a bridge as well, but between it and the space it still had from the ledge, it could still rock to and fro from time to time.

Wordlessly, Fheon jumped onto one of the stones peeking out of the water and then onto the head, nearly slipping in the process. The rope they had used to scale the wall was still there, unmoved, which meant that none of the dwarves had seen it. None of them knew about their absence, and none of them ever would, if Fheon had anything to say about it.

With her healed shoulder, she was able to scale the rope more quickly. Once she was at the top, she looked down from the edge and found Bilbo already halfway up. He pulled himself past the railing, with some help from Fheon. Afterwards they hastily rushed back to the sleeping quarters.

“Go in and stay there for another hour,” she told the hobbit. “And don’t let anyone see the flask. They’ll wonder where you got it.”

“We know nothing about the Arkenstone.”

“Nothing.” She practically shoved him down the hall towards his own room. Without looking back to see what happened to him, she opened the door to her room and closed it behind her.

Absolutely nothing had changed about the chamber. Everything was where she had left it, which, she supposed, was only logical. Unless Thorin had come back and found her gone… No, if he had done so, he would have seen the rope at the front gates and waited there, and then he would have caught them—which he did not.

Trying to calm herself, Fheon removed her hauberk and then lied down sideways on the bed.

A soft tinkling sound reached her ears and she reached to the crook of her knee. Her fingers grazed something cold. The Necklace of Lasgalen. Her heart clenched at the memories that rushed forth. She placed the necklace on her bedside table, doing her best to ignore it.

Her mind wandered to what would happen when she went back outside again. She and the dwarves would be met with the possibility of peace or war. It all depended on how generous Thranduil felt like at such an hour, and how forgiving Thorin would be. If Thranduil accepted Bilbo’s suggestion for a trade, everything would be thrust upon Thorin. He would decide whether he was going to give a few hundred gold pieces to the men of Lake-town, or if there was going to be war.

Obviously, Fheon wanted him to go for the first.

No matter what happened, it was her duty to protect the dwarves. If Thorin chose peace, then she would celebrate with them. If Thorin chose war, then she had no other choice but to side with them, fight with them and—if it came to it—die with them.

When she was still a child, the prospect of death used to frighten her so much, just thinking about it made her cry, and nothing but the hold of her mother could calm her down. She always used to wonder whether there was something _more_ —what happened after death? After what Thorin had told her about his brother’s death, she knew now that the dwarves believed in an afterlife served in the Halls of Mandos.

She could not be sure if the elves believed in such as well, though her father had never told her of such an afterlife. The only memory she had of him stating something even close to such a thing was when a man from the village, a dear friend of his, died because of food poisoning. She remembered being completely incompetent about what was happening.

With tears in his eyes, Leon had told her, “He is in a much better place now.” For days, she had pondered on his words, musing about castles in the sky and flying horses and such.

Having gone through everything she had, Fheon was not sure anymore whether such a luxury could exist, even high above in the heavens. But similarly, the thought of dying was not as frightening as it had been before. If she fell in battle, then she would die a warrior’s death, which was everything a Ranger could ever hope for. If she survived and lived a long life, then she would be grateful nonetheless.

But if she died not having finished a mission she sorely wanted to finish… It was the kind of fate that frightened her. The prospect of lying on the ground in her death throes and not being able to think of anything else but the fact that she had failed, and then passing into the void.

Knowing how cruel fate could be, Fheon knew that it would pay to be two steps ahead. The problem was that it was not always easy. There was always not enough time, not enough trust, not enough patience. It was infuriating. It always had her _hoping_ that the flow of things would go her way. Because things certainly did not go the way of her mother, or her father, or the people of Lake-town, or Elijah—

Fheon nestled her head deeper into the soft pillow, curling around herself, closed her eyes and, almost immediately, fell asleep.

* * *

 

She awoke to the sound of someone rapping on her door. Even in her groggy state of mind, she knew that it was time.

Hurriedly she got to her feet, opened the door, and was greeted with the sight of Bilbo standing in the hallway, wearing no kind of armor at all except for the mithril Thorin had given him, which he wore beneath his coat.

“Thorin wants everybody at the gates,” he said. “I’ve heard there’s quite a view.”

“The elves are there already?” Fheon hissed, pulling him into the room and locking the door. He answered with an affirmative.

Cursing under her breath, she strode across the room and slipped her hauberk back onto her body. Then she pulled Gokukara’s armor out from beneath the bed and, in the same manner as she had done before, got herself into it.

“What’s that?” Bilbo asked. She followed his gaze and saw that he had noticed the sparkling Necklace of Lasgalen. Who would not?

“Nothing. It’s a gift.” She reached around and held the back of her cuirass together. “Help me with these.”

Bilbo started slightly, rather surprised, and then took his place behind her and started tying the silver cords together.

“Tighter,” she told him.

“… Like this?”

“Little more.”

“… There.”

“Perfect.”

By feel, she judged his progress. Once he was almost to the base of her neck, a thought occurred to her and her stomach churned slightly. “You do know what you’re doing,” she said, “right?”

He was quiet for a moment, which only worsened the feeling in her stomach, until finally he said, “Yes, I think so. Thorin asked me to do something similar a while back.”

“Good.”

When he was almost finished, she felt a particularly hard tug at the cords behind the base of her neck: Bilbo tying the final knot that would seal all the cords in place. His hands pulled away from her and she turned around, looking down at herself for a moment before raising her eyes.

She spread her arms out to the side. “How do I look?”

He nodded, as if in approval. “Deadly,” he answered. “Those elves will be sorry they ever sought to fight with you.”

Satisfied, Fheon pulled her belt out from beneath the bed. As she bent forward, she noticed that the material of the armor did not restrain her, not even the sewing around the hips. When she straightened up with the belt and sword sheath in hand, the armor bent with her and then returned to its original state. The material of the cuirass itself was hard and metallic, but the stuff around her waist yielded to her twisting about. It must have been made from the same material as the faulds: firm and able protect her from being sliced at the hip and waist, but soft as well, so she could move around freely.

Fheon came to the conclusion that armor made by dwarves had no equal opposition in all of Middle Earth.

She strapped the belt around her waist, with her sword at her left hip. Her bow and quiver went over her shoulder. Then she, with a final glance at the Necklace of Lasgalen, exited the sleeping quarters with Bilbo and rushed to the front gates.

They climbed up the stone steps that led to the overhang. Thorin and the rest of the Company were already there waiting, armed and ready, looking out over the edge. Fheon did not find the need to announce her arrival to all. She instead took her place beside Bifur and Bombur. She was quite surprised that the latter was wearing armor that seemed completely perfect for his size.

A smirk was playing on her lips when she caught the grimly threatening expressions on all of the dwarves’ faces. So she looked out over the railing as well, and the smirk quickly died.

Standing there below them was row upon row of elves. There had to be at least two thousand of them, if not more. Their armor shone golden beneath the light of the newly risen sun. The first several rows at the front were armed with bows and arrows, while the rest behind them held spears and no doubt had shields hanging on their backs.

Walking through the shining mass was the Elf King Thranduil, riding atop a large stag with even larger horns. Riding on a familiar white steed beside him was a human, clad in ragged clothes and looking completely out of place among the grandeur of the elves. Bard.

As they walked, the elves stepped aside in what seemed to be a practiced fashion, waiting just the right time for their king to pass before returning to their original positions, until finally Thranduil and Bard were walking on a blank, snowy valley—the valley between the elven army and the gates of Erebor.

Before they had even reached the edge of the watery trench, Fheon heard the familiar sound of a bow being drawn, followed quickly by the whizzing of an arrow. She jumped slightly, taken aback, when the arrow landed just mere inches away from the hooves of Thranduil’s stag. The animal halted in its tracks. Bard and the Elven King looked up in shock.

Thorin nocked another arrow. Loud enough for the people below them to hear, he said, “I will put the next one between your eyes.”

His statement was met with cheers from the dwarves. Fheon made it a point to look at each of them with her usual indifferent stare, hiding her irritation.

A cold, humorless smile appeared on Thranduil’s face. It was gone just as quickly when one of the dwarves—Dwalin, Fheon thought—yelled something in Khuzdul that might have been a massive insult.

Thranduil dipped his head. Immediately, the elves at the front rows got their bows into position, nocked their arrows, and aimed at the overhang. And all this, in perfect synchronicity.

While the dwarves beside her crouched low to hide from what they thought was an attack, Fheon stood, unblinking, and could not help but to marvel at how much patience the elves must have had in order to learn their tricks.

For a second or two, there was nothing but silence. She was aware of Thranduil glaring daggers at Thorin, and Thorin doing the same, albeit in a much more powerless state. When Thranduil raised his hand, the elves behind him returned their arrows into their quivers. Thorin still did not withdraw his arrow.

“We have come to tell you payment of your debt has been offered,” said Thranduil. At his pause, Fheon leaned forward in anticipation. Finally, he concluded: “And accepted.”

She breathed a sigh of relief but knew that the storm had not yet passed. Now it was up to Thorin; he would decide their fate.

“What payment?” Thorin demanded. “I gave you nothing. You have nothing!”

Thranduil turned his head and looked expectantly at Bard, who, for a while, dug within his coat’s pocket. Fheon heard the tinkling of metal. When he pulled his coat aside, she saw that he was wearing chainmail underneath, same as Bilbo. She frowned.

The bargeman pulled the Arkenstone out of his pocket, raising it above his head. It sparkled majestically beneath the sun.

“We have this,” he called back to Thorin.

From the corner of her eye, Fheon watched the Dwarf King slowly lower his bow in what might have been astonishment.

Kili’s gasp from beside him was definitely one of astonishment. “They have the Arkenstone,” he said, and then his expression turned into one of pure anger. “Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the king!”

“And the king may have it, with our good will,” said Bard, tossing the gem into the air and then returning it to his pocket. “But first he must honor his word.”

Fheon was able to register a slight intake of breath from Thorin at the sight of Bard’s chainmail. In a hushed whisper that only she, the dwarves, and Bilbo could hear, he said, “They are taking us for fools. This is a ruse… a filthy _lie_.” To Bard and Thranduil now, he yelled, “The Arkenstone is in _this_ Mountain! It is a trick!”

“It’s no trick,” came the familiar stuttering voice of Bilbo.

Fheon felt around beside her, where the hobbit was supposed to be. She found only open air. Her heart dropped and she whirled around to find he had stepped out from the group of dwarves and went to stand where Thorin would see him.

“The stone is real,” he continued. “I gave it to them.”

Slowly, Thorin turned and placed his gaze onto the hobbit. “You?” The hurt was clear in his voice.

“I took it as my fourteenth share,” Bilbo explained.

“You would steal from me?”

“Steal from you? No. No, I may be a burglar but I like to think I’m an honest one. I’m willing to let it stand against my claim.”

Fheon noticed the change in Thorin’s eyes, then—from the betrayal came something more malicious, more twisted. Thinking quickly, she placed a hand on the pommel of her sword and stepped closer to Bilbo.

“Against your claim?” said Thorin, sneering derisively. “Your _claim_ … You have no claim over me, you miserable rat!”

He threw his bow to the ground and took a single, threatening step towards Bilbo. Bilbo took a single step back but otherwise held his ground. “I was going to give it to you,” he said. Fheon kept her eyes on Thorin and her hand on her sword. “Many times I wanted to, but…”

“But what, _thief_?” Thorin growled.

“You are _changed_ , Thorin. The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word, would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”

There seemed to be tears in Thorin’s eyes, and Fheon hoped that this was because he was fighting with the dragon-sickness, not because of anger. Yet she could only hope, and it turned out to be worth nothing.

“Do not speak to me of loyalty,” he spat. “Throw him from the rampart!”

A cold, tense silence came over the dwarves as his words settled in. It was met with the shifting of heavy feet. Fheon spared a sideways glance below them and found expressions of astonishment on both Thranduil’s and Bard’s faces. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her sword, though none of the dwarves made any move against Bilbo.

Thorin whirled around at his kin, utter disbelief and anger on his face. “Did you not hear me?” he shouted, dragging Fili over to him.

Fili pulled his arm back and gave his uncle a look of surety.

“I will do it myself.” Thorin snarled. He was onto Bilbo in two long strides, pulling at his clothes and forcibly lugging him to the edge of the overhang. “Curse you! Cursed be the wizard that forced you onto this Company!”

The dwarves then all rushed forward to pry him off, pushing Fheon back a few feet. It took her several seconds before she finally got through them. She pushed Thorin back with a mighty shove.

Once she did this and as he stumbled backwards, he pulled his sword out from its sheath. Fheon did the same and, in a split second, their swords met with a loud _clang_. Neither of them made any move after that—Thorin in his surprise and Fheon in her determination.

From below, there was a bellow.

“If you don’t like my burglar, then please, don’t damage him. Return him to me.”

Fheon spared a glance and found that it was Gandalf. He was sure to be startled and infuriated that she and Bilbo had snuck out of the encampment.

“You’re not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain, are you, Thorin, son of Thrain?”

At this, Thorin pulled his sword back, as if burned, and turned his head to yell at the wizard. “Never again will I have dealings with wizards, or Shire rats!”

While he did this, Fheon quickly pulled Bilbo back onto his feet and pushed him to where the recoiled length of rope was hidden beneath the snow. Bilbo looked at her in alarm. “What about you?” he asked.

“Go,” she muttered in response.

“But—”

“ _Go_ , Bilbo. I’ll take care of things here.”

Thankfully, he said no more and scaled down the wall outside, where Thorin could not reach him.

From below, there came the voice of Bard. “Are we resolved? The return of the Arkenstone for what was promised?”

Cautiously, Fheon gave the King a wide girth as she returned to her place at the far side of the overhang. She kept her sword out and pointed at him. He had all but forgotten her and was listening keenly to the bargeman, fuming.

“Give us your answer!” Bard continued. “Will you have peace or war?”

Suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, a black raven flew into view. This was the same black raven, Fheon knew, Dwalin had released with a message for the dwarves of the Iron Hills. She was not joyous or hopeful or jubilant at its arrival. She knew that, with an army, Thorin would only thirst for war even more. And she was right.

Fheon saw the moment Thorin’s gaze turned to the west. There, a mass of iron-clad dwarves had appeared and were marching down a hill.

Not even a quarter of them had appeared on the horizon yet, and they were already at least five hundred strong. The sound of their iron feet colliding with the ground echoed all across the terrain. And while the dwarves around her cheered and yelled, Fheon was only filled with a strong sense of dismay.

Thorin’s eyes gleamed with madness. “I will have war.”


	34. Aforetime III

At the head of the legion was a dwarf riding atop a wild boar. Fheon guessed that this was Dain.

Meanwhile, at the bottom of the hill, Thranduil was barking orders at his army. The elves turned to face the dwarf army to their east and began marching, perhaps hoping to intercept them. Fheon could not bring herself to pay much attention.

She turned and gave Thorin a hard look. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

He returned her gaze evenly, and in it she could discern the fury he no doubt felt for her since she had pushed him off of Bilbo. “I will not let them take this Mountain,” he growled. “Not with my life.”

“This is madness,” she told him as she slowly sheathed her sword. He was no longer listening.

Thranduil’s troops had stopped marching. So had the dwarves of the Iron Hills. But at the head, Dain continued forward on his hog, only halting on top of a small crest.

“Good morning! How are we all?” he greeted. His heavily accented voice sounded rather like Gloin’s as it echoed all throughout the valley quite impressively. “I have a wee proposition if you wouldn’t mind giving me a few moments of yer time. Would ye consider… JUST SODDING OFF? All of you! Right now!”

The people of Lake-town, grouped together with the elves, backed up in alarm.

“Stand fast,” she heard Bard shout.

Gandalf emerged from the elven mass, speaking in a condescending voice. “Come now, Lord Dain.”

“Gandalf the Grey,” said Dain, apparently familiar with the wizard, who nodded in acknowledgement. “Tell this rabble to leave, or I’ll water the ground with their blood!

“There is no need for war between Dwarves, Men and Elves. A legion of Orcs marches on the Mountain. Stand your army down!”

“I will not stand down before any elf, not least this faithless Woodland _sprite_. He wishes nothing but ill upon my people. If he chooses to stand between me and my kin, I’ll split his pretty head open! See if he’s still smirking then!”

Dain’s statement was met with the cheers of the dwarves of the Mountain. Fheon pushed through their ranks to get a better view of what was happening below.

Thranduil was at the middle of his army, glaring at the Dwarf Lord. “He’s clearly mad, like his cousin,” he snapped.

“You hear that, lads?” said Dain. “We’re on! Let’s give these bastards a good hammering!”

He returned to his army, shouting in Dwarvish. His men responded with a spine-chilling battle cry, pounding their shields and spears together. Those who had swords or axes did similarly. And as Dain continued barking at his army in Khuzdul, the front line of the elves—the archers—slipped back to the deeper quarter of the elf army and were replaced by their kin who held swords and spears. They formed a defensive front line that would strike down the nearest opponent.

Fheon felt a sense of dismay, watching Dain and Thranduil shout speeches at their men. They were going to march forward and beat each other bloody any second and she was helpless to stop them.

Then, a deep rumbling sound registered in her ears, like that of giant boulders shifting. It was faint at first, growing louder… as if it was getting closer.

Fheon’s hand rested on the pommel of her sword just as a huge pillar of dust exploded out of the ground, north of the Mountain. Clearly seen behind the sheet of dust was a creature as tall as Erebor, and by the looks of it, they were only seeing half of it. It seemed to be a giant worm of sorts, with a gaping mouth at one side of it, shaped like a blossoming flower, only with razor sharp teeth at every inch.

“Were-worms,” Balin said beside Fheon. Three more similar creatures burst out of the ground, crushing boulders with their teeth. And then they disappeared back into the holes they created, only to be followed by the uninvited yelling of Black Speech.

The bellow had not come from within the tunnels, for it would have been fainter than it was, not echo all across the valley. Which only meant that it would have been coming from a high place. And indeed, when Fheon raised her head and glanced at the east, there, standing atop a ruined watchtower, was the Pale Orc.

He spread his arms out and behind him, a flag was raised. An orc horn sounded from within the tunnels before legions of the dark creatures began streaming out, armed for war.

Below, half of Dain’s army disjointed started for the army of orcs. “The hordes of hell are upon us!” Dain shouted. “To battle, to battle, Sons of Durin!”

A shiver ran down Fheon’s spine at the momentousness of his words. She pushed past the dwarves again, making her way to the scaling rope, and announced, “I’m going over the wall. Who’s coming with me?”

The dwarves responded with obvious enthusiasm, but suddenly an arm shot forward to splay across Fheon’s chest, halting her.

“Stand down,” Thorin ordered.

She stared at him, more incredulous than angered. “Did you not hear your cousin? To battle, _Sons of Durin_!”

“I said,” he looked her right in the eye, “Stand. Down.”

Half of the dwarf army ran out to intercept the orcs, forming a barricade that covered the entire length of the front of Erebor. Their spears peeked out from the gaps of their shields.

The orcs were only a few meters out now. Fheon heard Gandalf yell something from below, but his voice was easily lost behind the heavy thundering of armored feet and the battle cries of the dwarves.

Mere seconds before the orcs ran into the dwarves, Thranduil barked an order and a quarter of his army separated, running up from behind the dwarves and intercepting the orcs with their swords. Their red capes were soon lost within the flurry of battle. The dwarves’ barrier disappeared and soon they were onto the orc army as well.

Thorin climbed down the steps from the overhang. Fheon glared after him, bristling. “THORIN!”

He paid her no heed and vanished into the Mountain.

A second orc horn sounded to the east, followed by the rhythmic thundering of feet and a shouting of cadence. It was not at all human, and Fheon soon noticed a second orc army marching towards Dale. Their magnitude far outnumbered the dwarves and elves, whose halves were already fighting the orc masses that had come out of the were-worms’ tunnels.

She thought that things could not get any worse, but spoke too soon. Five trolls then appeared from the tunnels, wooden turrets on their backs, ridden by goblins.

She cursed under her breath and grabbed the scaling rope. “I can’t just stay and do nothing. I have to help.”

A wrinkled, pale white hand curled around her wrist, stopping her once more. It was Balin. “You can’t go down there now, lass,” he argued urgently.

“Why not?”

“You have to help Thorin.”

A disbelieving scoff escaped her lips. “ _Help_ him? I have been helping him, ever since you told me I could bring him back. You were wrong, Balin. He won’t listen to me.”

She heard an animal bellowing amidst the loud noises of battle, and glanced down to find Thranduil still atop of his stag, chopping away at the orcs beneath him. From the corner of her eye, she watched Dwalin trudge down the steps, no doubt about to look for the King.

“You can’t leave him,” Balin contended.

“Why don’t you go talk to him then? Last I checked he’s known you longer than I have.”

“But his feelings for you are stronger. You know this.”

Fheon looked around at the rest of the Company, completely aware of them staring at her. Some were curious stares; others were in awe, surprised that Thorin had fallen for her, chosen her.

“Once, I thought I knew him,” she muttered, lowering her gaze. “Now I can’t be sure anymore. Not with everything he’s said, everything he’s done—or _almost_ done, for that matter.” These were just excuses, of course. Half of her wanted to speak with him again, give him another chance. The other half wanted to hate him and lead his Company out into battle while he stayed behind with his beloved _gold_. She shook her head. “He’s changed, Balin.”

Balin then peeled her hand away from the pommel of her sword, a pleading look on his face. “You can change him again,” he said softly. “Just once more. If he still does not listen, then I will give you leave to join the battle.”

Boulders shot forth from the turrets on the backs of the trolls, demolishing the charred buildings of Dale. Fheon stared at the trolls in dismay, knowing that they had to be killed as soon as possible, if the battle was to go their way. Her decision was a split-second one.

“Once more,” she told Balin, and then hastily turned away, making for the treasure room.

* * *

 

She did not find them there, though. Instead she found him in the East Hall, standing atop the dried sea of gold where he had thought he could bury Smaug.

Staring down at it from above, Fheon could almost imagine the slithering silhouette of the dragon, but he was not there, nor would he ever be. He was dead, like how the entire hordes of Men, Elves, and Dwarves outside would be if they did not receive help.

Thorin stared down at the floor of gold, looking quite unsteady on his feet. The closer Fheon walked, the more she noticed how hard his hands were shaking. His head snapped up but he did not look at her; he glanced around, eyes wild and mouth agape, as if in fear. Because of the stillness of the air, she could hear his heavy breathing. Then he just grew silent altogether and stared at something ahead of him with an odd look—a mixture of realization and fright.

Fheon watched him for a few minutes longer, just seeing how helpless he was, and how, at any second she wanted, she could knock him out. Of course, when he woke up, she would be punished, but she did not think about that.

For what felt like a long time, she just stood there, watching him as he stared off into the distance. Straightening up, she came down from the final step, putting her foot down rather loudly, announcing her presence.

“Are you finished?” she demanded, forcing a dull tone into her voice. “Because we have a war to partake in.”

Slowly, the King turned around and placed his gaze on her, wide-eyed and catching his breath.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Fheon said, “But I will not stand down, nor will I let the dwarves do the same. Azog is out there shedding the blood of _your_ kin. Too much rides on this war. If the orcs win, they _will_ take this Mountain. The fourteen of us won’t be enough anymore, not without...”

She trailed off when Thorin pulled the crown off his head and flung it to the ground.

The resounding _clang_ echoed up and down the large hall for the better part of a minute, and within this minute, Thorin quickly closed the distance. Fheon reached for her sword, merely out of reflex, but she felt wary of him as well.

Then he hugged her, arms wound tight around her torso. She was aware of his slight trembling against her. She said nothing of it, in her astonishment and disbelief. His long, dishevelled hair covered a portion of her face as she stayed still and waited for an explanation.

“I saw it,” said Thorin, his voice rumbling in his chest and sending vibrations into Fheon’s. “I saw what would happen to me… to _us_. Mahal, can you ever forgive me?”

She did not know whether he was speaking to her or to the deity Mahal himself—so she said nothing, not until he pulled away and looked at her with the most earnest expression she had ever seen on his face.

“Please.”

“I may be able to forgive you, Thorin, in time,” she replied, rather tentatively. “But I do not think I can ever forget… for obvious reasons.”

Understanding flickered across his face and then he said in a very low, serious voice, “The things I said to you last night were the truth. I meant every word.”

“You threatened to kill Bilbo. You raised your sword against me.”

“I had not intended…” He trailed off and looked away from her for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. “You were right, Fheon. The sickness had gotten to me but now I… now it has gone. I swear it.”

Fheon regarded him for a moment longer, trying to see whether he was speaking the truth. Her strong trust in him returned to her veins. She nodded. She felt like she’d just tasted the sea after years of puddle-jumping. Refreshed, but despite herself, she tread with caution.

She peeled his hands away from her hips. “The dwarves wait for us. It is time to defend the Mountain.”

Thorin nodded and led her out of the East Hall. To her surprise, he led her to the armory. Before she could ask, he had retrieved for her pairs of bracers, greaves, and poleyns. He then attached the sets of armor onto her forearms, lower legs, and knees faster than she could ever have, saving them a fair amount of time.

The material of the things did not offer her as much comfort as Gokukara’s armor, which was only expected, but she agreed that they were necessary if she were ever to survive half the battle. He gave her a pair of fingerless gloves as well and she pulled them on eagerly, knowing it would help in wielding both a sword and a bow.

Thorin flashed his teeth at her, _completely_ throwing her off, before he led her back to the front gates.

An orc horn sounded outside the Mountain and Fheon’s stomach churned in unease. She and Thorin marched into the main hall, watching through sheets of dust as Kili shot to his feet upon seeing them.

“I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight our battles for us!” he yelled in outrage. “It is not in my blood, Thorin.”

Fheon looked at him, smiling slightly as she inched away from the King to give him a moment with his nephew. If Thorin noticed, he said nothing of it. He only looked at Kili with pride in his eyes.

“No, it is not,” he said. “We are Sons of Durin, and Durin’s Folk do not flee from a fight.”

A kind smile lit up his face. He pressed Kili’s forehead to his, eyes closed. Fheon felt as if she was intruding on something. She looked away, instead pricking her ears to listen to the carnage outside.

“The battle fares badly,” she announced. “Dain has just ordered his men to fall back. We should get out there while we still can.”

Thorin bobbed his head in acknowledgement and faced the Company. “I have no right to ask this of any of you,” he said. “But will you follow me… one last time?”

In response, the dwarves squared their shoulders and raised their weapons.

Smiling slightly, Fheon banged her braces together and said, “Well come on then. We haven’t got all day.”

“Bombur, go to the overhang. Blow the war horn,” Thorin quickly ordered. “The rest of you, get ready to scale down the wall. Remain out of sight.”

“Why?” Bofur asked.

“We might as well make a worthwhile entrance, yes?”

Fheon scoffed. “Thirteen dwarves and a human scaling down a single rope won’t be worthwhile, it’ll be stupid.”

Thorin looked at her with a glint in his eye but said nothing in retort. She let her mouth quirk upwards slightly before turning around and following the dwarves up to the overhang. During the climb, Balin tugged at her elbow until they were eye to eye. The look on his face said it all.

“You’re welcome,” she told him.

“Just… don’t die, alright, lass?”

She laughed at that. “No promises.”


	35. The Battle I

As expected, their entrance had been very anticlimactic—to Fheon, at least.

They made sure to get down the rope quickly. Over her shoulder, she was aware of the stillness that had settled over the armies, including the orcs.

Not until all of the Company had crossed the shallow trench did Dwalin finally release a battle cry. He was the first, followed by Thorin, and then the rest of the dwarves. Dain’s army made way for the Company and she was able to register Dain yelling, “To the king! To the king!” His call to arms was echoed by the shouts of his kin.

Thorin bellowed something that vaguely sounded like Khuzdul, raising his sword and shield. All around them, the dwarves repeated the war cry. Fheon scowled in determination and increased her pace, making towards one of the trolls that stood in their way.

It swung its mace at her. It missed her leg by an inch. She jumped onto its knee and pushed herself to straddle its dirt-ridden shoulders, as she had done in Rhudaur with the cave trolls. This time, however, she quickly unsheathed her sword and pulled out one of her arrows. She stabbed them into each of the troll’s ears.

The troll bellowed in anger and thrashed about, trying to push her off. She became hard-pressed not to get herself killed by impaling her head on the troll’s helm. She tightened her legs around its jaw and gave its head a hard tug, making it swivel to the right, so that it faced the orc army. Beneath her, the orcs froze in fear.

She pulled out her sword from the troll’s ear and slipped the blade beneath its ear, stabbing it in the neck thrice before its muscles finally gave way underneath her. It fell, face-first, into the army of orcs. As Fheon rolled away from it, she was able to register a gory, splattering sound from where the troll had landed.

From the corner of her eye, she found that the rest of the trolls had been killed already.

She dove into the approaching army of orcs, hacking and slicing at any that came near. Thorin and the other dwarves quickly caught up to flank her. Soon they had surged forward and took the lead. Thorin shouted something in Khuzdul which might have been an order, and Fheon was annoyed that she couldn’t understand.

Distracted slightly in trying to discern what he was trying to say, an orc managed to nick her upper arm. Not a very good way to start a battle. She soon noticed that their small legion was cutting down the orcs in an outward fashion. Seeing that Thorin was at the head, Fheon kept at the front lines of the legion and beside him.

There were very few chinks in the orcs’ armor that she could hope to exploit, and so she stuck to the most common she could find: the gaps between their upper-body armor and their faulds, the skin peeking out at the tops of their feet, and the gaps between their helms and cuirass. Her sword was sleek enough to be able to slip through.

Two orcs advanced at her from the right. She was able to slit one’s throat before stabbing the other in the gut. The unfamiliar dwarf beside her grunted and then brought his hammer down on an orc that was running up in front of her. She spun around him and beheaded an orc that was about to bash his head in.

By unspoken agreement, they reverted back to their original positions. Fheon felt safer fighting beside Thorin, which, she supposed, said a lot about what she felt for him.

She slid her sword through an orc’s armpit before beheading it, and then whirled around to gut another. Orcs were coming in from all sides now. The dwarves had broken ranks. She began to fight more fervently, saving Thorin from a few death blows and he did the same for her.

Vaguely, she was able to notice a large redheaded dwarf fighting alongside them. He had been since the beginning. She turned her head the slightest bit and comprehended that it was—

“Dain!” yelled Thorin.

“Thorin!” was the reply. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

Past her own multiple skirmishes, Fheon registered the sound of a growling orc and metal clanging against metal. Suddenly she felt the ground quake and rolled to the side, barely keeping from being stepped on by a very large orc. On its back was Dain.

“Sorry!” he said.

She pursed her lips but otherwise resumed her fighting, more cautious about where she placed her feet.

“Hey, cousin!” Dain greeted. “What took you so long?” This was followed by the still alien-sounding laugh of Thorin.

Fheon sliced open an orc’s belly and spared a look over her shoulder to find the two of them in a brotherly embrace. Though there were dwarves fighting around them, protecting them from harm, she would have appreciated it if they saved their bonding ideas for after the battle.

“There’s too many of these buggers, Thorin,” said Dain. “I hope you’ve got a plan.”

“Aye,” said Thorin. “We’re going to take out their leader.”

“Azog?”

“I’m going to kill that piece of filth.”

The sound of clacking hooves reached Fheon’s ears. She frowned in confusion. There was not supposed to be a horse on the battlefield. In the brief moment she had been distracted by this, an orc thrust its sword upon her torso, just a few inches from her navel. She cried out in pain, grimacing as she whirled around and killed the orc with a swipe of her sword.

Behind her, she heard Thorin call out her name. The flurry of hooves continued until a large ram entered her vision. Riding atop it was Thorin, wearing his concern openly on his face. Dain and his men surged forward, creating a protective circle around her and the King.

Worried, Fheon glanced down at where the orc had stabbed her. Though there was no blood, there was a considerably deep dent in the metal and a sure bruise on the skin beneath.

“I’m fine,” she said, panting slightly.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” She ran hand across the dent and then raised her head to look at him. “I’m coming with you, to kill Azog.”

“No, you are wounded—”

“Thorin.” She stared at him with hard, determined eyes. “I’m coming with you.”

A knowing look crossed his face. Quickly, for he knew they were still on the battlefield, he thrust his hand out to her. “Come on.”

She took his hand and pulled herself onto the ram. He moved farther up the saddle to make space for her and she wrapped an arm around his waist.

As they rode past the hundreds of soldiers—elves, dwarves, and orcs alike—Fheon swung her sword here and there to slay a few more of the orcs, if only to slightly lessen the hardships of those still fighting on the ground. Thorin fought as well, though half his concentration was on riding the ram where they needed to go. The massive horns of the ram aided tremendously, knocking away the orcs ahead of them as if they were nothing but flies, clearing the way.

A roar reverberated from their right. Fheon dug her heel into the ram’s backside. It sped up they were barely able to evade the downward blow of a troll. But the creature gave chase, making the earth tremble with its heavy footsteps as it knocked away any dwarf or elf that came up and tried to kill it.

“Thorin,” said Fheon, sheathing her sword. “Keep heading us in the right direction, yeah?”

“Alright,” he answered slowly. “What are you—”

He stopped when she came up from behind him, bow in hand. She stepped over his shoulder and settled back down in front of him, practically straddling him. Face to face. Nose to nose.

His eyes grew wide. Fheon shrugged slightly and nocked an arrow. She adjusted herself so the bow was behind Thorin and that she was leaning slightly away from him, so she could aim properly.

She aimed for the troll’s left eye. It was difficult to hold her aim when the ram’s movements were so uncontrolled; she had very little time to realize the aim was right and release the arrow. It did not help that it had been a while since she had last used a bow. And it was not even _her_ bow. The feeling of the grip in her hand was different.

When she was positive she had locked down on its eye, Thorin shifted against her, causing unneeded friction between her legs. She jumped slightly just as she released the arrow. It bounced off the troll’s helm, denting it. The troll roared in anger and sped up its pace.

Fheon scowled. “Do you mind?”

Thorin did not reply but she could see the smug way his lips curled. He was chuckling. Fheon could not help but to smile slightly at the position she had gotten herself into. Sobering quickly, she aimed for the troll again.

She did not miss a second time. Her arrow slipped past the troll’s helm and buried itself deep into its eye. The troll fell amidst the sea of orcs, dwarves and elves. Behind it appeared two more rams, on which rode Fili and Kili. The brothers cheered and applauded her. Fheon managed a sigh of satisfaction before pulling back.

Thorin was staring at her. “Well done.”

She allowed herself to look at him as he was at that moment. Face covered in grime and gore and sweat, hair wild and unkempt, eyes glazed over in battle lust—he looked glorious in battle.

By then, they had broken away from the heart of the battlefield and were in a no-man’s-land, headed for one of the less steep mountainsides. Thorin leaned forward slightly. His eyes flickered downwards.

Fheon moved just in time so her lips brushed against his, never fully touching. With her cheek against his, she muttered into his ear, “Keep your eyes ahead, Dwarf King.”

A smirk played on his lips as she stepped over his shoulder again to sit behind him. She returned her bow over her shoulder and, this time, wrapped both arms around his torso.

They rode up the mountainside, closely followed by Fili and Kili. And while the ride was anything but comfortable, Fheon put on a brave face. Her fingers occasionally clenched into fists whenever the ram had to jump past a particularly high ledge. The saddle was not doing any good for her, but she grit through it.

In an effort to distract herself, she asked, “Where did Dain get these rams anyway?”

To her surprise, Thorin replied, “I have no idea.”

“Where are we headed?”

“Ravenhill,” he said. “Azog has been using it as his command post. If we kill him, we may win this battle just yet.”

After five minutes or so, a guard-post entered her view. When it had been far away, Fheon had thought that it was just a rather intricate statue, like the one at the back gates of Erebor. Soon she realized that it was not a statue, but a fort. Completely covered in snow and looking abandoned—apart from the small groups of orcs that littered the place.

Fili and Kili surged forward from behind them and jumped onto the fort, brandishing their swords. Thorin rode on they reached the upper levels of the fort; at which time, he yelled an incoherent word at Fheon, but she was still able to discern what he meant.

Together, they jumped off the ram and rolled to a stop on the snow-littered floor. There were half a dozen orcs in the perimeter. Two of them quickly fell to the swords of Fheon and Thorin.

Fheon spun around and ducked, letting an orc’s sword pass over her head before reaching up to grab its arm. She struck at the bare skin above its bracers and then slit its throat. Over its shoulder, she saw Thorin slay another orc. She and he made quick work with the two that were left, just as Fili and Kili appeared from the lower level, still on their rams.

Panting, Thorin rushed up to the ledge that looked over a frozen river leading down to a frozen lake. He stared up at the hill across the river. Ravenhill, Fheon realized.

Before, she had thought that it was a watchtower, and she was right. The two flags Azog had ordered to be raised were still there, billowing against the biting wind, but there was no Pale Orc.

“Where is he? It looks empty,” said Kili. “I think Azog has fled.”

“I don’t think so,” said Thorin, turning around to look at his nephews. “Fili, take your brother. Scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight. If you see something, report back. Do not engage. Do you understand?”

An animalistic but strangely familiar chorus of grunting sounds reached Fheon’s ears, rapidly growing louder, closing in.

“We have company,” she announced, raising her head just in time to see the first goblin appear from behind the ramparts. “Goblin mercenaries. Seems like quite a lot.”

She drew her bow and killed the one that was peeking its head out, and then another, and then another, until she was hard-pressed on keeping them from pouring down from the ramparts.

“We’ll take care of them,” said Thorin, pushing Fili and Kili away. “Go!” There was the sound of scurrying feet as the two brothers scuffled away, and then Thorin said to Fheon, “Do not waste your arrows. Let them come.”

It was only then that she noticed how low she was on arrows. Huffing, she slid her bow over her shoulder and unsheathed her sword just as the first wave of goblins came upon them.

While she had been shooting at them, her arrows had been enough to pierce into their stomachs and hearts. It said much about their armor, and she knew she would be having a much easier time killing these than she had with the orcs. But unlike the orcs, the goblins proved to be quicker and much less predictable.

Fheon strode forward and parried a downward lance. She crouched to slit open its stomach. Heavy footsteps came up from behind her and she rolled backwards, between a goblin’s legs. She came up from behind it and cut off its head.

“Duck!” Thorin said and she immediately did so.

A blade passed across her head. Scowling, she stretched her leg out at her side and spun around. She swept the goblin’s legs out from underneath it before proceeding to bury her sword into its chest. A gurgling sound escaped its throat before it stilled.

The next several minutes were a flurry of slashing, hacking, stabbing, and dodging.

There came such a time when Fheon’s sword arm grew heavier than she had ever felt it before. Her movements became sluggish. She received more injuries than she had wished—cuts on her upper legs and arms, and even a nick on her ear.

One goblin had managed to outsmart her for the slightest bit and was able to deal a long, shallow cut above her eyebrow. It proved to be the most irritating, as blood kept pouring onto her eye. She constantly had to pause and wipe it using the back of her hand. Glancing around, she saw that Thorin was doing no better than her.

She grunted to get the weight off her chest and resumed fighting.

When the sea of goblins finally started decreasing, Fheon heard Thorin call her name. She hacked a goblin across the chest before starting towards the King, hastily swiping at her left eye. As she was about to slice into a rather large goblin that had been ailing Thorin, she felt a hard, painful tug at the back of her head.

Her neck stretched painfully as it craned backwards. The pull at her braid had been hard enough to bring her onto her back.

Looking upwards, Fheon saw a goblin begin to raise its sword. She reacted quickly enough and was able to raise her own sword, blocking its blade from bashing her head in. Yet in her position, it was difficult to keep pushing against the strength of the goblin. She knew she had to get back to her feet, but the goblin was still tugging at her hair painfully hard. The braid must have flown out from beneath her armor during the fighting.

Fheon cursed. She yelled for Thorin but he was surrounded. He would not be able to come to help her, not until it was too late. She had to get out of this on her own.

Thinking quickly, she gathered her strength and pushed at the goblin’s sword again before rolling to the side. For a moment, she was able to get her feet beneath her. Then the goblin tugged again and she was back on her back. Seeing no other way out, and in a spur of the moment decision, she steeled herself for what she was about to do.

Holding her breath slightly, she brought her sword up and swung it a few feet away from the back of her head, the tip facing downwards. The outwards pressure on her neck disappeared. Hastily she rolled to her feet and killed the goblin.

It fell to the ground, her long braid of hair still in its hands.

Fheon refused to stare at it, fearing that she would become sentimental, and instead rushed to Thorin’s aid. Hacking her way through the small army of goblins that had surrounded him, she soon caught sight of him—bloodied, very much so than before. With their combined efforts, they were able to thin the amount of goblins until at last they were the only two on the courtyard.

Thorin leaned against a stone pillar for support as he struggled to catch his breath. Fheon watched him, bringing her hand up to touch the cut above her eyebrow to find that the corners of it had already closed. She tried not to open it again, not needing the nuisance.

When Thorin had regained enough strength, he looked up at her. As soon as he noticed the shortage of hair behind her, he froze.

Pursing her lips in agitation, she strode to the dead goblin across from her, picked up the length of hair in its hands, and then threw it down the side of the mountain. She did not watch it disappear past the dark rocks, instead turning to face Thorin. As she struggled to keep her voice steady, she told him, “Say nothing of it.” A warning.

“I won’t,” he replied, sending her a gentle smile. She regarded him for a moment before turning around and beginning to wipe her blade clean on the material of her pants, feeling slightly guilty for being so petty.

It was just hair, after all. It would grow back, unlike a leg, or perhaps a head.


	36. The Battle II

Fheon remained watchful for any signs of movement, for the faintest sounds of danger.

She tried to ignore how light her head felt physically and how, whenever she turned, there would be no length of hair—braided or not—that would follow around in her movements. She would not allow herself to become nostalgic. There was a better time for that when the danger had already passed.

Sometime during her waiting, she sensed Thorin switch his gaze to her.

“I like it,” he said. She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “It suits you better, I think, than the long braid. You look fiercer… as you are.”

At the fondness that had crept into his voice, a blush spread across Fheon’s face. Without her long hair, it was difficult to hide. She tilted her head downwards and allowed her new cropped hair to slide onto the side of her face, only covering half her face. She could not bring herself to say something in reply to Thorin’s words, so she grunted softly and hoped he did not look at her attitude as rudeness. He had just caught her by surprise.

She waited a few moments for the heat to leave her face before standing up and walking to the ramparts, scanning the horizon. As she did, a breathy rumbling came from somewhere in the watchtower across the river. It sounded vaguely like a troll’s roar.

A scowl of distaste eased onto Fheon’s face. “Where is that orc _filth_?”

Just as the words had left her lips, there came the sound of approaching footsteps—ut they were too light to be Azog. And there was not the low tinkling of scratching armor, so it was no orc, goblin, elf, or dwarf.

She turned around just as Bilbo appeared out of nowhere, ring in hand. Her eyes widened slightly but she said nothing of the golden band, afraid that Thorin would not approve of it—or worse, if he would.

Bilbo, breathing heavily, announced his presence and said in a weary voice, “Thorin.”

Thorin whirled around and his eyes widened in surprise. “Bilbo.”

The utter relief and awe in his voice reassured Fheon that he definitely was better than he had been since the gold-sickness. But her respite was short-lived.

“You have to leave here… now…” Bilbo was saying between breaths. “Azog has another army attacking for the North… This watchtower will be completely surrounded. There’ll be no way out.”

“We are so close,” Fheon argued fiercely. “That orc _scum_ is in there.” She stepped forward, almost threateningly, looking to go down the tower and follow after Fili and Kili.

Thorin stopped her.

“No,” he said. “That’s what he wants. He wants to draw us in.” The realization of the situation they had gotten themselves in dawned on him as quickly as it did Fheon. They turned their gazes to Ravenhill across the river. “This is a trap. Find Fili and Kili. Call them back.”

Without a word, Fheon sheathed her sword and replaced it with her bow. She rushed down the guard-tower and tread the iced river with an arrow nocked. She moved with careful but speedy steps, eyes flitting from side to side. Her heart thrummed painstakingly fast in her chest and she welcomed the warmth that rushed through her body, the adrenaline.

All excitement died out from her system as soon as drums started beating from within the watchtower. It was only a few feet away now. She glanced up and found firelight reflecting from off the stone walls. She took off into a full sprint, thundering past the first archway and then up the flights of stairs.

It was from the top level that she heard the feral grunts of orcs and the undoubtedly familiar voice of Azog.

At one of the lower levels, Fheon caught sight of a dark-haired dwarf from the corner of her eye.

“Kili,” she hissed. “Catch your brother. I’ll deal with the orcs. Get him out of here.”

She only waited for him to nod before resuming her path up the stairs. She burst onto the top level just as a familiar, young voice reached her ears.

“Go,” Fili croaked faintly.

Fheon saw a small band of orcs in front of her, but they were yet to notice her presence. Azog was at their head, holding Fili off the ground by the scruff of his coat. The monster had his bladed hand raised.

Fheon took note of all these things in the span of a second. Quickly she drew her bow, aiming for the back of Azog’s right knee—armored, but shooting at anywhere else held the possibility of injuring Fili as well.

“RUN!” said Fili, and the pure anguish made her heart clench. He was not desperate to save himself, but to see that his brother and uncle would live.

Azog brandished his bladed arm again and Fheon let her arrow fly. The tip of it pierced the armor on his leg and continued into skin. He bellowed in pain and surprise, dropping Fili.

“KILI!” Fheon shouted just as Fili fell out of her line of sight. She could do nothing but hope that the younger dwarf had heeded her words before, because then she was left with six orcs to kill and a very angry Azog.

She killed four orcs in quick succession, deftly releasing her arrows and redrawing again and again.

The two that were left advanced on her with greater speed than she’d expected. One swiped at her head and the other jabbed at her stomach. Fheon ducked and rolled away, and released an arrow that killed one. Below, she heard Thorin yelling at her to go back down.

Only one orc was left now, but it was the largest and it looked angry. It bellowed and stomped, making the floor shake. Fheon lost her footing and tried to regain her balance. To her right, Azog came towards her in two large strides and attempted to cut her head off with his bladed arm. He was too close. She wouldn’t be able to dodge it.

Instinctively, she brought her arms up, dropping her bow in the process. Her bracers deflected the otherwise fatal blow. The force of it knocked her to the ground. She saw Azog raise his blade again and she rolled to the left. The deafening ring of metal hitting stone rang painfully loud in her ears.

The remaining orc lumbered towards her, raising its mace. Fheon rolled again and the floor from where she had been cracked under the blow of the orc. She nimbly moved onto one knee and swiped her sword at the orc’s bare stomach, drawing blood.

It growled and raised its mace again. Fheon spun to the left and swung. The orc’s head fell to the ground with a gory, wet splatter.

To her right, the looming presence of Azog became known to her again. A wicked snarl escaped his throat and he raised his arm. Fheon weakly parried his blow, still on one knee. As he was pulling his arm back, she hastily got to her feet and deflected another, and another.

He was stronger than her, and larger. It grew difficult to try and find ways to get out of the defensive; the space was small. Whenever she dodged, he would be onto her in a mere second. Soon, her sword arm grew tired from constantly parrying his heavy blows. Her knees began to shake from the effort of having to stay on her feet as he swung at her.

She realized that it was a futile effort for a human to have to take on an orc as large as Azog single-handedly, though it would not be so for an elf… or a dwarf.

For all her quick thinking, Azog still had not grown tired of his attack on her. He continued relentlessly pounding at her sword, thinking that perhaps it would break. Fheon was starting to think the same as well, which was all the more reason for her to find a lapse in his attacks that would allow her to take advantage and escape.

At a certain point in time, he growled at her and then picked up the largest orc’s mace. He began using that instead, and Fheon cursed out loud.

Azog bared his teeth in what must have been his excuse of a grin. He spoke to her in Black Speech. She did not understand him, of course, but by the way his saunter turned smug and he had not started attacking her yet, it must have been an early victory speech of his.

Showing her teeth as well, she spat at his face, earning her an angered bellow. He swung his mace; she felt the rushing of wind on her face as she leaned back and the weapon hurtled past her nose, missing by an inch.

As soon as it had passed, she sliced at his arm. The end of her blade came away soaked in dark blood. Azog roared again. He raised his mace over his head and she dove to the side.

The sound of cracking stone reached her ears but she did not turn back. She thundered down the staira, sword heavy and nearly slipping out of her hands because of the sweat that had accumulated on her fingers. It occurred to her that she had left her bow.

She missed a step and was not able to catch herself. Her sword flew out of her hand. She stumbled down the remaining two steps and out onto the courtyard below. The coldness of the snow bit into her cheeks and her fingers, seeping through the material of her pants.

Her couters bruised her elbows, and the poleyns did the same for her knees. A bellow from Azog reached her ears from behind, and she quickly rolled to the side. Yet a similar cry came from somewhere above her, and a dark figure came soaring past her head, equally dark hair billowing behind him.

There was a loud _clang_ when Thorin’s blade deflected Azog’s mace. Fheon shifted to rest her weight on her elbows, and watched as surprise flickered across Azog’s face.

Azog tried speaking but Thorin cut him off. “Do not speak to me, _filth_. Today, I will make sure you meet your death.”

Panting, Fheon scrambled to her feet and retrieved her sword from across the courtyard. She then assumed her position beside Thorin, steeling herself for a fight.

He barely looked at her. “No. You cannot stay here.”

She spared him a sideways glance but otherwise trained her concentration on Azog. “I hate him too, Thorin. Learn to share.”

“ _No_ ,” he replied. “Return to Bilbo.”

“Kili—”

“Kili has gone to bring his brother somewhere safe. Bilbo will need protection. Go to him. _Now_.”

They had begun walking in circles, facing Azog, who seemed amused.

“Thorin—”

“That’s an order, Fheon!”

Azog had sprung into action and she had to jump back in order to dodge his mace. Thorin swung his sword and was able to scratch the Pale Orc’s elbow; it fazed him, but no more than that.

Fheon stared at Thorin pleadingly.

It occurred to her that, if his battle with Azog continued, then it would most likely be the last time she was going to see one of them—be it Azog or Thorin. She sincerely hoped that she would see Thorin again. She swore to herself that, once Bilbo was safe, she would come to Thorin’s aid, even if it meant having to drag herself across the frozen river.

She looked at Thorin one last time, imprinting the sight of him into her memory, before she marched towards the guard-post. The sounds of clashing blades and grunts of exertion followed her. With each meeting of the two blades, she flinched.

As she carefully ran across the frozen river, Bilbo’s small form came into view atop the guard-post. A colony of giant, black bats—as large as Bilbo himself—swooped past him, screeching and crying. From the corner of her eye, she saw various signs of movements appear from the top level of the guard-post.

Fheon ran up the steps and had to leap forward in order to intercept Bilbo’s assailant. She swung her sword over her head, deflecting its weapon, and sliced its bare torso open. Another orc came running at her and she cut its head off with ease.

One large orc—seemingly a commander—stood at the rampart of the guard-post and bellowed orders at his men, orders that no doubt held a single meaning: kill Fheon, and then Bilbo. She would not let either of that happen.

She killed three more of the orcs with ease. Behind her, Bilbo called her name. She turned and found him holding a large rock over his head. Reflexively, she ducked and the rock sailed over her head, hitting the forehead of the orc she had previously been battling with. It fell back and she pounced on it, stabbing its chest.

Orcs continued streaming onto the guard-post from the lower levels. Fheon killed each of them without question, sometimes watching as Bilbo’s rocks hurtled right and left, confusing the orcs and making her work easier. But their enemies were many, and the fight was yet to be finished.

It was an inevitability that she and Bilbo would soon be run down. The sheer amount of orcs that had surrounded them was frightening, but she fought on and fought hard. The time came, however, when one orc’s blade managed to slice past her faulds and sink into skin.

The pain was immediate. She knew that the orcs were intelligent enough to notice that their blades would not be able to pierce her armor, and this was proof that they had found a way to weaken her.

Fheon killed the orc that had injured her but another quickly took its place. Behind her, another orc managed to tear through the chainmail on her upper left arm, drawing blood. There was a slight tug as the blade was removed from the sleeve of the hauberk, and Fheon whirled around to strike down three orcs in quick succession.

The whistling sound of splitting air reached her ears and she spun to the side, narrowly dodging a mace. Bilbo threw a stone at the owner’s head and Fheon killed the orc quickly, before turning again and resuming the slaughter.

For minutes on end, she continued fighting through her screaming muscles and burning skin. The cut above her eyebrow reopened some time during the fight. Blood kept pouring onto her eye and down her face, obscuring her vision. The orcs landed several blows, mostly on her face, legs and upper arms. She should have been thankful that Gokukara’s armor had not failed her yet, but everything else was not going very well.

An orc’s blade caught the back of her knee and her legs finally gave way. Fheon caught herself by her forearms, but the orcs were quick. They took advantage of her waning. There was a gruff bark, an order. One of them strode forward to finish the job.

Fear struck Fheon’s heart, then. She thought she had been prepared to die, but her mission was not done. What would happen to Bilbo? To Thorin, who was battling Azog single-handedly?

She tried to stand again and blood poured out from the many slices that she had received on her legs. She dropped back down to the ground, vision hazy and head throbbing. Past the spots in her vision, she saw armored feet planted in front of her.

She felt the cold edge of a blade cut the side of her throat, but not completely. The collar of her armor protected her from the initial slice—the blunt side of the blade glanced off it—but there still came a ragged cut on the side of her neck that spurted blood as her heart continued beating at a rapid pace. Fheon, however, still had her wits about her.

She slumped forward and made no move to stop her head from hitting the ground, like how a dead person would have done. The impact was painful and jarring and made her black out for a few seconds, but not, she thought, fatal. She made it so that her left cheek was on the ground, so the cut would not be very noticeable. It was shallow but wide. Blood gushed forth, staining the ground red.

Coldness bit into the skin of her cheek. She forced herself to remain as still as a statue, not rigid, but lifeless—staring straight ahead with her mouth slightly agape, as if unseeing. The sound of heavy footsteps walking _away_ from her made her assume that her act was convincing enough.

The noises of a distant battle reached her ears—not the sounds of war between many enemies, but of only two. She struggled not to immediately get back onto her feet and rush to Thorin’s aid.

After a few seconds, Fheon heard a bark of order from somewhere far away. The orcs took off running. From the sound of it, there had to have been at least a dozen more of them. Even as she stared ahead she could see the small sea of orc bodies in front of and surrounding her. She and Bilbo had already killed so many, and there were still _more_?

Her dread only grew when she noticed that Bilbo was yet to show himself to her. If she remembered correctly, he had been throwing stones from behind her.

After making sure that the orcs’ footsteps were far enough away, Fheon carefully pulled herself up and placed her weight on her elbows. The injuries on her arms gushed blood, the bruises pinched, but she paid them no heed. She knew that, if she put too much weight on her leg, the blood loss could prove fatal.

She was emboldened slightly by the distant clattering of metal against metal, the audible grunts of exertion that were no doubt from Thorin, and, unexpectedly, the cries of a woman.

She craned her neck and searched for Bilbo. She found him lying on top of two dead orcs, eyes closed. Her eyebrows scrunched together and the cold claw of fear gripped her heart. Huffing from the effort needed, she dragged herself towards him and came to lean against the stone rampart.

There was a large patch of dried blood on his right forehead, and an obvious purple hump. Lines of red trailed down from the wound.

Fheon warily heaved herself on top of him and placed her ear on his chest. His heart was still beating. She sighed in relief—but she then realized that she would not be able to go to Thorin, not without first returning Bilbo to the safety of the elves’ camp.

_The Company goes first…_ Both he and Thorin were core parts of the Company as any of the dwarves. The decision of who she would prioritize first tore at her, and she racked her brain for any alternative.

The sound of heavy, approaching footsteps did not register to her until a goblin had appeared atop the far wall. It regarded Fheon, tilting its head fiendishly, and then looked over its shoulder. Two more jumped up to stand beside it, and Fheon’s heart dropped.

She spared a glance to where she had fallen before and found her sword there, close yet too far for her to retrieve without being killed by the goblins, what with her bad leg.

Cautiously, she reached to her right and pulled a sword out from beneath one of the dead orcs. It felt odd in her hands, but it would have to do. She forced a deadly expression onto her face as she got to her feet, gritting her teeth in pain. Her wounded knee buckled and she switched her weight onto the other one, very subtly, hoping that the goblins would not notice.

There were four of them, now—scouts, it seemed. They did not wear any of the heavy armor of the orcs, but they were covered enough for Fheon to discern that it would be rather difficult to kill them while favoring one leg.

Glaring at them, she leaned down slightly and peeled a rock out of Bilbo’s limp hand. Then she threw it at one of the goblins, hitting it right at the face. He recoiled but did not fall back down the rampart. All of them hissed and growled, and Fheon bared her teeth, brandishing her sword.

The goblins advanced on her quickly. She easily parried the first blow that came to her, sliding to the side with her good leg and then cutting into the side of one goblin. While it fell to the ground, two attacked her from her front and back.

She blocked the blow to her front first and twisted the sword behind her. There was a loud _clang_ that told her she had succeeded in hindering the other goblin’s sword. She pushed it back with all her might and the sword nearly fell out of her grasp.

When the weight coming from behind her disappeared, she dodged right and evaded the blow of the goblin in front of her. Pain flared from her knee and blood surged forth from the wound. She was able to behead her two opponents with a deft spin and two flicks of her wrist, before her knee finally buckled and she fell to the ground.

She made sure not to let go of the orc sword in her hand this time. A gasp escaped her throat at the extreme burning sensation in her right leg.

She brought her sword up and blocked the blow of the single remaining goblin. But the screaming of her muscles finally took effect, and the sword flew out of her hand. The goblin brought its blade down again and she let it slip off her left bracer as she rolled to the right. Her mistake.

Her right knee stretched against the firm ground, and when she was lying on her hip again, the back of it hit the corner of a piece of rubble. Tears sprung into her eyes and a choked cry tore through her throat. Her mind throbbed harder and became heavy.

A grimace appeared on her face as she seemed to lose all feeling in her leg, before the pain returned after a second or two. Through bleary eyes, she looked up and saw the goblin raising its sword over its head. This one was sure to kill her. Even then, she could feel the slice on her neck oozing blood. Perhaps that was why she was starting to lose consciousness… or rather, why some part of her _wanted_ to lose consciousness. The blood loss.

For all she had fought for, she was going to die at the hands of a _goblin_.

Shameful as it may have been, she never blinked. Her heart hammered in her chest as she waited for the blow that would end her life. Yet as the goblin was beginning to bring down its sword, there was a flurry of light footsteps from behind Fheon, and then a fierce battle cry. A woman’s cry.

Fheon flattened her head against the ground just as an elf came soaring over her, dual blades in her hands. She landed in front of the goblin, barely missing Fheon’s legs, and blocked the goblin’s blow by crossing her swords. She pushed its blade away and hacked at its bare navel, before slicing its head off.

Fheon swiped at her eyes to clear her vision, blinking once she registered the sight of long, auburn hair.

Tauriel turned and regarded Fheon with what seemed to be a look of both surprise and reverence. Fheon never thought that seeing an _elf_ would make her happy, but she had only felt such relief very few times in her life, and she decided that it should not be a grudging relief.


	37. The Battle III

Tauriel helped Fheon onto her feet, and she forced herself to remain standing upright despite the searing pain in her right leg. Tauriel tore a small piece of leather from her clothing and handed it to Fheon, who tied it around her knee to stop most of the bleeding. She then handed her another piece of leather; when she looked up in question, the elf looked at her neck and nodded at the still bleeding cut there. Fheon held the material over the wound, pressing on it.

Through gritted teeth, she said, “Where is Fili? Is he alive?”

“He is fine,” said Tauriel. “He’s with his brother, somewhere safe.”

Limping, Fheon walked a few steps forward and bent down to pick her sword up off the ground. Its familiar weight in her hands reassured her.

“You will have to rest,” said Tauriel. “If you do any more fighting, I’m afraid it will not end well for you.”

Fheon shook her head. “I can still fight.”

“No, you cannot.”

“I was given a mission. Protect the Company. And now I must.”

“Even if it costs you your life?”

She regarded the elf with tentative scrutiny, narrowing her eyes slightly. “You would do the same for Kili,” she said in a soft voice, tilting her head. “You would die for him, would you not?”

The effect of her words was immediate and evident. Tauriel’s eyes widened right before she looked away, pursing her lips. A slight blush appeared on her cheeks. It took her a few moments to regain her composure, at which time she switched her attention to an unconscious Bilbo.

“This hobbit is a part of the Company as well, is he not?” said the elf.

“Yes,” Fheon replied tersely. “That is why you will stay with him.”

“How do you know that I will?”

Fheon raised an eyebrow. “You would not let him die. You are too kind for that.”

The elf shook her head. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know you care enough that you would become an insubordinate to Thranduil. Surely he was not the one who had ordered you to follow us to Lake-town.”

At this, Tauriel met her knowing gaze. “Let me help the dwarves. You can stay here with the hobbit.”

With some reluctance, Fheon replied, “It is not to the dwarves I will go.”

“Thorin?” Tauriel exclaimed. “It is madness.”

“Is it?”

“You will die!”

“I have told you this already.” Fheon grip on her sword tightened in impatience. “I would die for the Company… and most certainly, _him_.” She had hoped that Tauriel, out of anyone else, would understand.

The she-elf’s eyes softened and the steely determination on her face wavered. She glanced down at Bilbo, and then looked to Fheon again. “Is there no way I can change your mind?”

Fheon shook her head. “None at all.”

Tauriel nodded once and seemed to come to a decision. “Then I give you my blessing,” she said. She walked over to Fheon and placed her hand on her head. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “May the gods watch over you and help you strike down your enemies.”

Fheon did not believe in any god, only, perhaps, Death—but she decided against telling the elf that.

Tauriel then murmured something in Elvish, and Fheon felt an odd sort of warmth wash over her. Strength returned to her limbs. Her mind became clearer than it had ever been. The pain from her wounds dissipated slightly, but she could still feel it pricking at the back of her mind.

Warily Fheon stepped away and looked at Tauriel, inquiring. The elf smiled slightly. “It is an Elvish blessing, one we give to any warrior who needs all the help he, or she, can get.”

Fheon bowed her head. “Then I thank you.”

“When we meet again, I truly hope it will be in this world, and not in another.”

“Aye.”

After a while, Fheon recalled a gesture she had seen one of the elves do in Mirkwood, during the Feast of Starlight. By memory, she imitated the gesture as best as she could. The surprise was clear on Tauriel’s face, but she quickly returned the gesture. Fheon’s imitation of it was crude and rudimentary, yet respectable enough, she thought.

The moment was interrupted when the sound of a horn pierced through the still air. Mere seconds later, it was followed by the unwelcomed cacophony of stomping feet. Fheon turned to stare at the hill about a hundred meters away. Marching down the slope was the front lines of an orc army. The army Bilbo had been talking about.

“Go,” said Tauriel, eyeing the legion with distaste. “Now, while you still have time… Go!”

Fheon whirled around and broke into a sprint.

The sounds of fighting became ever louder in her ears. She followed the noise, the clashing of blades, the cracking ice. The very latter disconcerted her. Despite the obvious thickness of the frozen river, there was still water beneath the surface. If either Thorin or Azog were ever to break the ice, it could change the tide of their battle.

As she kept running, she could not remember how or why Thorin’s position had become so far from her. The last she recalled, he and the Pale Orc had been fighting on Ravenhill. Why were they so far down the river, now?

To her right, the orc army came ever closer to the bottom of the hill. She could only hope that Thranduil’s and Dain’s armies were enough to defeat the rest of Azog’s forces.

Even with Tauriel’s blessing running through her veins, Fheon’s body soon became heavy with exhaustion. Halfway through her run, she had removed her quiver and laid it beneath a rock. It would do her no good in a fight with the Pale Orc, and her bow was still somewhere on Ravenhill anyway.

She adjusted and readjusted her grip on her sword many times, anticipating the moment when it would become less heavy in her fatigued arm. She grew clumsy, and because of the ice, nearly slipped onto her back many times.

When her vision began dimming and she thought that she would never reach her destination, there was an ear-piercing screech from behind her. An eagle’s screech.

She ducked her head just in time and raised her eyes to watch a convocation of eagles fly ahead of her. They were huge—the very same eagles, she realized, as the ones that had delivered her and the Company to the stony eyot, where they started on their short journey to Beorn’s home.

The eagles flew straight for the orc army marching down from the north, angling their wings for a steep dive. Lines of spears disappeared as orc after orc fell beneath the wings of the eagles.

Fheon felt a renewal of energy within her. With the eagles, their chances of victory could only grow.

Tauriel’s blessing responded to her newfound vigor, and more warmth flooded through her veins until such a point that it became uncomfortable. But Fheon sprinted on. It registered to her that the sounds of conflict, which had previously been echoing down the river, had disappeared.

There was a single, high-pitched ring of a sword hitting ice, and then wildly splashing water. The bellows of a large orc accompanying this was unmistakable. After a long moment, there came an abrupt silence.

Fheon slowly came to a halt and stared down the long expanse of river ahead of her. Her breath came out in short, shallow pants, and she could see wisps of air escaping her mouth. Far down the watercourse, she was able to make out the speck of a figure. It had dark clothes and a dark mane of hair.

“Thorin!”

She resumed running towards him. The dwarf did not seem to hear her, instead keeping his head down, as if he was staring at something beneath the ice. Fheon realized that he was too calm for Azog to still be a threat prowling around the perimeter.

Hope squeezed at her heart. She called for him again, louder this time. “THORIN!”

He was closer now. She could make out his features, distinguish what was a limb and what was his sword, notice how much more bloody his face had become.

Her eyes stung as she swallowed. She tasted blood. “THORIN!”

Finally, he raised his head and she was able to catch a glimpse of his eyes. Despite their distance, she could see the unmistakable blue of his pupils—as well as the jagged cut starting at his hairline and running down to his eyebrow.

For a brief moment, she caught the corners of his lips turn up in a smile. “Fheon,” she heard him say.

Her elation at seeing him again was cut short when a single high note pierced through the air. He threw his head back and released a long wail of agony.

Confusion and dismay filled her, only replaced by anger when Azog sprung forth from the ice. Thorin fell and was obstructed from her view by the towering figure of the Pale Orc. Azog swatted Thorin’s sword aside and then thrust down, aiming for his chest. But even Fheon saw that Thorin had mustered enough strength to block the Orc’s blade with his own.

Fheon surged past her fatigue and ran even faster. Her feet felt like they were no longer touching the ground. When she was only several feet away from them, she saw from between Azog’s knees that his blade was only an inch or two away from Thorin’s heaving chest.

With a final push against the dark walls slowly closing in around her, and a scream of defiance, Fheon leaped off the ground and onto the Pale Orc’s back.

She wrapped her arm around his large neck and brought her sword up to jab it into his shoulder. The blade dug into the Orc’s flesh and he uttered an earth-jarring roar. He tried to throw her off him and almost succeeded. But just in time, she was able to insert her fingers beneath his armor.

When she was thrown to the side, she heaved with all her might and Azog flew with her to the ground.

Unable to break her fall, Fheon rolled, and she felt every single bruise. She was only able to gasp in pain before Azog got to his feet. Behind him, Thorin was on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. His sword lay on the ground beside him.

Azog glared at Fheon and advanced. Fheon gritted her teeth and hastily regained her footing. As soon as she did, Azog swung at her from the side. She jumped back slightly and parried his blow, brandished her sword to cut at his neck. He was quick to block it. He returned with a faster, heavier blow of his own, one that made her knees buckle.

Fheon did her best to take advantage of his injured, bleeding shoulder, trying to move to the left and attack from there, where he would be hard-pressed to defend himself. But he was smarter than any other orc. Once he realized her plan, he began putting more weight into his blows, almost pounding on her sword.

It was not his strength that was her greatest foe, Fheon realized. It was herself.

Her body was exhausted, not her will—no matter how determined she was, it was impossible to land any sort of blow when her limbs would not cooperate effectively. She could not dodge fast enough and without her agility to help her, she was left to block the blows that Azog threw at her, resulting in a heavily battered sword arm and what felt like a sprained wrist.

Azog was the one to land the first blow. His sword struck her side. It bounced off her armor but caused a dent that Fheon could feel as she moved around. The rather sharp depression caused her chainmail to rub against her gambeson, which caused her gambeson to rub against her skin. An unnecessary distraction.

She managed to land a swipe on his right hip, but it barely fazed him. He only growled and renewed the vigor of his blows. Not long after, his sword pounded at her armor again, at the same spot it had last time.

Behind him, Fheon noticed Thorin pull himself onto his feet, only to fall back down again. His hand touched his foot and came away bloody.

Fheon could feel the energy slipping out of her limbs; Tauriel’s blessing wafting out of her like smoke from a chimney. Soon, her sword arm hung limply at her side and her knees were shaking. Her head throbbed. The corners of her vision were starting to become a deep red. She could not form a single coherent thought.

Azog’s sword came towards her from the left and she blocked it with her blade. To her surprise, the Pale Orc brought his other hand up, as if to slap her.

With her free hand, Fheon gripped the wide portion of his large, white thumb. He pushed at her and she was left only to keep his hand away from her. His sword came closer and closer, and her lower lip quivered as a pained grunt escaped her.

Then Azog reared his head back before bringing it forward again, butting it against Fheon’s forehead.

The sharp end of his eyebrow collided with the cut above her eyebrow, seeming to dig into it. Her brain felt like it had exploded within her skull.

Her legs gave way, but she did not fall. Azog had his hand around her neck.

Through the dimming of her vision, she watched as a smug smile travelled up his face. “Valar morghulis,” he said. “The last words of your mother before I killed her.” An orc speaking in common-tongue sounded so wrong; Fheon knew that it was not how the world was supposed to work. Yet he continued, “Enlighten me as to what it means before I kill you as well.”

Behind him, she noticed movement. Thorin. Her eyes welled with tears.

“All men must die,” she said in a choked whisper, feeling the beginnings of resignation coursing through her. “But I am no man.”

The muscles in Azog’s right shoulder rippled. The only warning she received was the dull _clang_ of her armor as it finally gave way. Then there was searing pain at the side of her stomach.

Past the ringing in her ears, she was able to register a shout that did _not_ come from Azog. There was the piercing sound of a sword travelling through armor and through flesh. Before her eyes, a look of horror flashed across Azog’s face.

Numbness had already begun to travel through Fheon’s body. She barely managed to look down. The end of a sword was jutting out of the Pale Orc’s chest, the tip of it very nearly touching her navel as well. She noticed the obvious dent in her armor. Lowering her gaze, she was finally able to see the gaping hole at her side.

Azog’s grip on her neck disappeared and she was falling again. Once more, hands caught her and kept her from hitting the ground. Large hands, and for a moment she grew afraid that Azog had a much more terrible fate planned for her.

But it was only Thorin’s face that hovered above her, covered in grime and blood, but just as handsome as she remembered. Slowly, he set her down and she felt a sudden stab of pain come from her side. The coolness of tears travelled down the sides of her face.

More pain and the numbness seemed to burn away, replaced by the sheer agony. Her eyes flew open and she cried out.

“It hurts,” she sobbed, clawing at Thorin’s hand and trying to push it away from her wound, but he was relentless.

“I know, I know,” he said, somewhat crooning the words to her. His voice was gentle, yet his eyebrows were furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Thorin.”

“I have to stop the bleeding—”

He stopped when she began whimpering. The sound of it seemed to pain him more than a blade ever could. He closed his eyes and the pressure on her wound lessened.

“Please…” Fheon whispered, and then again, until finally his hand fell away from the wound, instead coming to rest on her chest. It rose and fell with shallow breaths. Each escape of air was a struggle.

Something wet dripped onto her cheek.

Thorin gripped her one hand as tight as he would a sword. The haze that had settled over her mind cleared somewhat. She managed to speak.

“It is done,” she said. “Azog is dead.”

“I will not let you die,” he answered in a firm voice. Fheon’s lip curled up in a half smile, and his grip on her hand grew tight. “You think I jest? I won’t lose you, not like this.”

“The elves are too far—”

“The eagles are here. They will take you to our healers. There is still hope, Fheon. When all is dire and bleak, remember?”

“Gandalf will not reach me,” she continued, for it was as if she had not heard him. When she paused and swallowed, she tasted iron in her mouth. “Valar morghulis… A saying from my mother.”

“You said it yourself. You are no man.”

“I am no fool either, Thorin.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Human. I am human.”

The pain was gone now, supplanted by a strong sense of serenity. In her mind, she sent her gratefulness to Death. She knew that it was only by his approval that she spent a considerably long time in her death throes.

Unhurriedly, Fheon brought her hand up to touch Thorin’s face. His hands cupped hers. She felt his warmth travel down to her toes, for the last time. Soon afterwards, coldness began to spread all throughout her body. Some part of her knew that he knew this as well.

Thorin’s breathing became ragged. His shoulders trembled.

“The dwarves… Bilbo...” said Fheon. “Keep them close. It cannot all have been for naught.”

“Forgive me for having brought you and your brother to such peril,” said Thorin, his voice thick with emotion.

“I would not have changed a second. Not a single moment of it. Your line will continue, as it… as it should—”

A series of coughs started at her throat and she faced the sky, aware of the droplets of blood that escaped her lips. It was then, it seemed, that the only strength she had left began to drain away. _Not yet…_ She still had so much to say.

“Look for Elijah’s body—in the lake… Burn us so our souls might find peace.”

“Fheon, _gimlelul_. _Men lananubukhs me_.”

Another tear fell onto her cheek and she tried her best to smile. “You will be a fine ruler, Thorin. And you will find a new queen… a better queen. Listen to her.”

“I would listen to _you_.”

The utter anguish in his voice saddened her. With her remaining strength, she used her thumb to squeeze a small portion of his hand. “Then hear this… Value food, and cheer, and song, more than gold… and the world will become a merrier place.”

She found herself gasping for breath. Their time was coming to an end, and Thorin realized this, for he released a choked sob before hurriedly saying, “I will see you again. By my name and the names of my forefathers, I will find you in Valinor.”

“Then do not mourn me… and look for me only in due time.” With difficulty, she brought her left hand up and placed it over both of Thorin’s. “Farewell, my king.” She noticed a hint of movement to their left and smiled slightly. “Farewell, Bilbo…”

Thorin squeezed her hand as more tears fell from his face, and Fheon breathed her last.

The faint sound of it escaping her mouth seemed to echo in her mind. Then the darkness that had long been waxing and waning at the corners of her vision descended on her, and she saw no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimlelul - my brightest star  
> Men lananubukhs me – I love you
> 
> I don't own "Valar Morghulis"!


	38. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is, of course, "The Last Goodbye" by Billy Boyd. Seems fitting, don't you think? :)
> 
> I hope y'all liked the story! Make sure to R&R!

THORIN WATCHED Fheon’s chest as it rose and fell in a shallow, rapid pace, and he realized just how little their time together had become. His throat closed up just as a sob escaped him.

“I will see you again. By my name and the names of my forefathers, I will find you in Valinor.” Though his voice was weak, his promise swept over him like a tidal wave. He knew he was bound to it.

Slowly, and grimacing slightly, she placed her hand atop both of his. Her fingers chilled his warm skin. “Then do not mourn me,” she said, croaking. “And look for me only in due time…”

She did not have to explain herself to him. He knew what it was that she meant, and he despised the idea. He _despised_ the fact that she was asking him to wait for perhaps another two-hundred years, to let his life go on as if it was so easy to forget that he had lost _her_. She had told him to find a new queen and to listen to her, but everything he wanted for his queen—everything he never _knew_ he wanted—was right in front of him, in her death throes.

The familiar, beautiful copper tone of her skin had gone, replaced by deathly paleness.

“Farewell, Thorin.” Her now-white lips turned up into the ghost of a smile—the smile Thorin had so rarely seen but had come to love about her. “Farewell, Bilbo…”

But Thorin did not turn. He had no wish to look away from her. What he wished was to look upon her face for the remainder of his life and know that he was not going to lose her until the time was right, until she had reached a ripe old age. What he wished was to be able to stare at her and be happy, but it was impossible to be so whilst he held her cold hands and watched as the life slowly drained out of her.

For what felt like their last moment, Fheon met his eyes again, and only recently before had he felt that everything was right in the world whenever she did that. But not now. Now, it felt like the world was imploding in on itself. His heart clenched, squeezed by a glove of ice. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he allowed them to drip onto Fheon’s face, hoping, _praying_ that they would wake her from her stupor. But they did not.

His hands tightened around her fragile one. Her lips opened to let out a long breath of air, and they did not close again.

Her head slumped to the side and her hand limply fell away from his, dropping onto her armor. Thorin took it back and held both her hands now, placing his lips onto the crooks of her thumbs. He felt her cold, lifelessness transfer to him, but he was still breathing and she was not. She stared at the horizon behind him. The sight of a kingdom that had entered a savage war outnumbered but had survived—a sight she would never see.

An anguished howl tore past Thorin’s lips.

He howled just as he had when Azog had beheaded his grandfather.

He laid his head onto Fheon’s chest and wept. He let his tears cascade down the iron armor. After a while (to him, what felt like hours), he sensed Bilbo come to kneel beside him and, in his grief-stricken state, he was able to hear the hobbit’s sobs.

Thorin slipped his arm around Fheon’s shoulders and pulled her to him, placing his chin on the top of her head. He cradled her body against him, so frail compared to his wide stature, yet they seemed to fit together so perfectly.

By then, his tears had long run dry, but the thorns remained around his heart.

He cursed himself for letting this happen, for not doing _more_. He could have saved her. He could have. But he had allowed himself to be carried away by the fact that Fheon had always been able to escape the hands of death, even without anybody’s help. He had been foolish and _blind_ —blind to the fact that she was still _human_.

With his lower lip quivering, he mustered the strength to pull her eyelids down, his fingers trembling.

She was no more immortal than Death was a man.

 

_I saw the light fade from the sky._

_On the wind, I heard a sigh._

He and Bilbo remained there on the frozen river of Ravenhill until the battle was finished. The only sign they received that the fighting was over was when Gandalf marched up to them, originally coming to check on Bilbo. Then his eyes fell upon the lifeless face of Fheon, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Oh my…”

Those were the only words that left his mouth. Then he just sat on a nearby rock and stayed there, mourning in his own way, Thorin knew.

The time came when they had to face the aftermath of the battle—the wreckage, the bodies, the goblins and orcs that escaped—and, of course, the burials of those who had fallen.

One of the giant eagles swooped down from the sky and waited on Thorin, squawking weakly. Its large eyes stayed on Fheon as it tilted its head here and there, almost as if it was _curious_. Thorin glared at it half-heartedly.

Standing on weak legs, he leaned down and picked up Fheon’s body. He placed her onto the eagle’s back. To those who did not know better, it would have looked like she had just fallen asleep, if it were not for the gaping wound on her side.

Gandalf got onto the same eagle, so as to make sure her body would not fall off. After a moment, he gestured for Bilbo to get on as well. Thorin knew that they would not offer that he ride with them, and they did not. The eagle would not be able to take such weight. And even if they did offer, Thorin would not have accepted.

Despite the ache in his heart, he was still the official King Under the Mountain. He was to lead the arrangements for the burials. There was to be a feast as well—they had finally slain Azog and defeated his armies. But it did not mean that the feast would be merry.

He looked on at Fheon’s face, yearning to see her eyes open again of their own accord, so that he could once again see both the kindness and the firm determination in them.  But her eyes remained closed, and he knew they would remain so forevermore.

The eagle took off and Thorin was forced to look away. Snow billowed around him. He felt even colder than before.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he proceeded to walk down the long, winding river, back to the cliffs where he would be able to look down at the carnage and victory that war had brought upon his kin.

 

_As the snowflakes cover my fallen brothers,_

_I will say this last goodbye._

~ ~ ~

As soon as the battle was over, Thranduil decided it best to carry the fallen of his kin back to Mirkwood, where they would be given a proper Elven burial. Thorin did not argue, but neither did he forget the condolences the she-elf Tauriel had given to him. She spoke to him about how she had admired Fheon’s strength, and the blessing she had given her before she went out to aid him. And though it had not saved her from her fate, he was still grateful.

Thorin returned the White Gems of Lasgalen to Thranduil, along with the Necklace, which lay on the bed Fheon had used to sleep on. It was the deed she would have wanted him to do, ever she found out that the Necklace had not been his to give to her.

The bodies of the fallen dwarves and men were brought into the dining hall, laid across the long tables. It took three whole days for the dwarves to finish placing all the bodies into their respective caskets.

During these three days, Thorin ordered four small groups of dwarves to take boats out onto the lake. They took four long prodding sticks with them, so that they could find Elijah’s body.

They found him on the third day, bloated and pale, covered in scrapes, with a large, ugly gash running from his shoulder to his hip. But he held a serene look on his face, the same as Fheon. Thorin ordered him to be cleaned up and changed into their most regal clothes, just as he had with Fheon.

On the second day, Bard came forth from Lake-town’s encampment in the ruins of Dale and asked for the payment he had been promised. In this, as well, Thorin did not have the grit to defy him what he deserved. His people had fought in the battle as well, and they had lost many men.

In the end, however, Bilbo offered his fourteenth share of the Mountain’s treasure. Despite the Company’s disapproval, he did not fall back on his proposal, and Bard was grateful.

The bargeman returned to the people of Lake-town. Whereupon they would rebuild their homes, when, and how, Thorin did not know. He only parted with them in peace. During the farewells, he spotted Bard’s three children. The youngest had been crying, and it came to mind that Fheon had once taken it upon herself to talk to them, during their brief stay in Esgaroth.

His eyes stung with fresh tears as the thorns tightened around his heart.

On the third day, Thorin wandered the halls of Erebor, watching silently as his people passed him by. He noted little things that could be changed. Indeed, during the day, he was only a king trying to relearn the reins. But in the night, his eyes remained open, his body frozen in place but his consciousness elsewhere.

The image of Fheon remained embedded in his mind—not as she was during her last moments, but as she had been before they had reached Erebor.

When, at first, he and she had been so hateful towards each other, and when it soon changed, slowly but surely; how Thorin had not even noticed fully until she had returned from her short trip to Esgaroth to look for Elijah. He remembered how beautiful she had been the night they escaped Thranduil’s dungeons. How her beauty had remained, despite her dishevelled appearance and her simple, dripping wet clothes.

Her grace, he knew, would long endure in his memory, the same way her words would remain a persistent echo in his consciousness—what she would want him to do.

 

_Night is now falling._

_So ends this day._

_The road is now calling,_

_And I must away._

~ ~ ~

It was the dawn of the fourth day when Thorin called all the dwarves of the Company, including Bilbo, to gather outside the Mountain. There, they worked together to build two funeral pyres.

Dwalin lifted Elijah onto the first pyre, and Thorin did the same for Fheon, carrying her onto the second. He took slow steps back, staring at her face, searing the image of her into his mind—her ebony hair, her copper skin, her long eyelashes.

Balin doused their bodies with oil. Fili and Kili stepped forward with torches in their hands, placing the flames near the pyres. The wood caught fire immediately. Soon, Fheon’s face was obscured from Thorin’s view by tongues of flame.

Thorin looked away and switched his gaze upward, watching as tiny orange sparks floated to the sky. He sent his gratefulness to Elijah. Without him, Fheon would never have stayed with Thorin long enough for him to realize what she meant to him. He hoped his message would reach Elijah’s spirit. He sent a prayer to Mahal, asking him to lead Fheon’s and Elijah’s souls safely to Valinor.

And although he had only invited the members of the Company to witness the funeral, when the fires had died and nothing was left but ashes, Thorin turned to find Dain and several other dwarves looking down at the scene with mournful eyes. The ones Fheon had unknowingly saved from death with her arrows and her sword.

Thorin, without meaning to, shed a tear that fell into the outer workings of Fheon’s pyre.

 

_Under cloud, beneath the stars,_

_Over snow one winter’s morn…_

~ ~ ~

Late afternoon of the fourth day, each and every dwarf gathered deep within the Lonely Mountain, where the halls were pitch dark.

In front and below them was a massive chasm that travelled deep into the earth below. Within the circular chasm were billions of niches made out of stone. Placed within these were the caskets of the fallen. They would remain within these nooks until their skin dried up and their bones turned to dust, and possibly even afterwards—thousands of years afterwards.

Dain stood beside Thorin as Lord of the Iron Hills. He stated his final words to the fallen, that they would find safe passage to Valinor and into the Halls of Mandos.

Afterwards there were the initial festivities, and everything went just as Thorin had planned. The halls of the Mountain were filled with the merry laughter of dwarves, their singing, their merry-making. Every hour or so, a bard would come to stand on top of a table and recount a tale about one who had fallen.

One bard in particular came up and recited his account of a woman with long, braided hair, and how she had killed many foes with the help of her brother and her simple, short blade alone. As Thorin listened, he felt a small, rueful smile crawl up his lips.

 

_Many places I have been._

 

The festivities carried on until morning, and even well into the next day. Sadness and triumph mingled together, and never had it made such a wonderful permutation.

Fheon’s laughter echoed in Thorin’s mind as Fili and Kili danced a merry jig on top of one of the tables. Thorin found himself watching everything with a twinkle in his eyes, and there came fleeting moments when the pain in his heart dissipated.

_Many sorrows I have seen._

 

In the morning of the sixth day, Bilbo approached Thorin and said that it was finally time for him to return to The Shire. Thorin nodded. He knew it had to happen sometime. He had hoped the hobbit would stay longer, but he could not be given everything he wanted. Still, the night before, he had taken it upon himself to prepare a pack for the journey as well, to go there and back again.

At Bilbo’s confusion, he explained, “I have to tie a few loose ends there… what with Fheon’s and Elijah’s passings.” A sad smile inched up his face. “Their friend Hiram will want to know what happened.”

“Can’t any of the other dwarves do that for you? You are King now, after all. Your people need you.”

“But my duty is not only to them. Not anymore.”

Bilbo nodded and did not breach the topic a second time.

Originally, the hobbit had wanted to leave without a fuss, slipping quietly back into the wilderness outside. But Thorin, of course, would not have that.

Bilbo was waiting for him at the front gates. When Thorin met him there, he brought the dwarves of the Company with him. Bilbo sighed when he caught sight of them, as if in exasperation, but a smile brightened his face nonetheless.

“If any of you are ever passing Bag End…” Bilbo paused, thinking about his words for a long moment. And then a look of acceptance crossed his face, and he bobbed his head with pursed lips. “Tea is at 4. There’s plenty of it. You are welcome anytime... Don’t bother knocking.”

The dwarves bowed with teary eyes, and Thorin sent Bilbo a small smile of approval.

He walked to where Gandalf waited, holding the reins of two ponies and a horse. Thorin turned to the dwarves. “I will return,” he said.

Balin stepped up from behind him and clasped his arm. Thorin no doubt surprised him by pulling him into a brotherly embrace.

“Make sure Dain does not completely destroy the kingdom,” said Thorin, earning him a chuckle from the older dwarf. Then he walked over the newly rebuilt bridge and joined Gandalf and Bilbo. He mounted his pony and, together, they began their journey back to The Shire.

 

_But I don’t regret,_

_Nor will I forget,_

_All who took that road with me._

~ ~ ~

Winter passed in the blink of an eye, and soon spring was upon them once more. The lush green of the rolling hills and the bright blue of the sky brought memories to Thorin’s mind, reminding him of the time when their Quest had begun and things were still so simple.

There still were the problems of rain and finding shelter, but the excitement had gone out. They were no longer being chased. Azog had been slain, the remainder of the orcs were being hunted down, and the goblins had retreated back into their caves and tunnels underground. There was no more danger than there should have been.

Occasionally they would pass by a familiar lake or a stream, or Thorin would lay eyes on a small mountain range in the horizon, and he would know where they were. He would also remember the events that had happened the first time they passed by such pastures. How different everything seemed now that there was no conflict.

With two of his sole enemies dead, Thorin felt like he had nothing to strive for. Of course, when he returned to Erebor, there would be many duties thrust upon him as King Under the Mountain—but journeying for The Shire, he felt more pained than he had been before.

He knew that he was going to the place where Fheon and Elijah truly belonged, yet neither was travelling with them.

At night, he was often tormented by thoughts such as this. Se soon found that talking to Bilbo was a relief. The hobbit knew just as much as he how horrible it was to have lost Fheon, for he had garnered her friendship as well. The more Thorin talked to him, the easier it became to think of her and not feel like his heart was being crushed.

Bilbo recounted his moments with her. Be it conversations they had had at night, whenever they could not sleep, or the conversations he had had with Elijah, which was equally enlightening. Thorin only wished that he could have talked with Elijah more before his passing.

He recalled what he had said to him during their leave-taking from Esgaroth, his request: “I will protect your kin if you protect mine.”

Knowing that he had failed, Thorin once again thrust his concerns to Bilbo, who spoke about it so effortlessly.

It occurred to Thorin that hobbits were as wholehearted as they were hospitable.

 

_To these memories I will hold…_

~ ~ ~

The undergrowth of the Borders of The Shire was a light green, with the leaves above them already taking on a vaguely orange hue. Every tree and shrub seemed to emanate an aura of warmth and benevolence about them. Thorin thought that it would not be a very bad fate to be born in such a friendly location.

He stood aside as Bilbo said his farewells to Gandalf. Though their voices were still loud enough for him to hear, he banished the thought of keeping any of their words in mind. For several more minutes, he waited, until finally Bilbo shook Gandalf’s hand and lumbered towards Thorin, the various dwarf materials clinking noisily against his body.

Thorin looked at the hobbit with a warm gaze and then wrapped his arm around his shoulders, casually resuming their walk to The Shire. Bilbo looked surprised, but said nothing of it.

Only a few paces afterwards, Bilbo turned and said to Gandalf, “You needn’t worry about that ring. It fell out of my pocket during the battle. I lost it.”

Gandalf raised his chin. “You’re a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I’m very fond of you… but you’re only quite a little fellow in a wide world, after all.”

The tone that had crept into his voice disturbed Thorin, and he sent the wizard a questioning look. Gandalf only dipped his head lightly, resulting in a shadow to cross his face, before turning around and walking back to his horse. Uneasy, Thorin adjusted his grip on his pony’s reins as Bilbo walked them deeper into The Shire.

When Bilbo asked why he was venturing so far in, Thorin told him that he would rather have the Rangers find him than he look for them. It would be rather easy for them to spot a dwarf walking into The Shire with a hobbit that had been missing for the better part of two years.

“And my sentiments have gotten the best of me, it seems,” he continued. “If you remember the first time we met Fheon and Elijah.”

Bilbo smiled. “Yes, I remember.”

 

_With your blessing, I will go_

_To turn at last to paths that lead home._

 

Thorin walked with him as far as the main gate, but there, they had to part.

Bilbo gave him such a sad stare, yet underneath, Thorin could see a fundamental joy—even gratefulness. Smiling, he placed his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I will not forget you, Master Baggins,” he said. “You were the best burglar any dwarf could ever ask for.”

This got him a light chuckle from the hobbit. “I’m glad to have shared such a journey with you,” he said. “It was far more than any Baggins deserves.”

“Then take this—” Thorin pulled out an amulet of a dwarfish statue from his pocket. He had carved the talisman himself out of a small pebble, “—along with the mithril, and know that if you ever need help, the dwarves of Erebor will come.”

The hobbit looked down at the pendant. Thorin thought he saw a tear fall from his eye.

“Thank you,” said Bilbo, slipping the amulet over his head. It came to rest on his chest, looking so regular above the dwarf clothes he wore. “And… goodbye, I suppose.”

“Goodbye, Bilbo.” Thorin pulled him in for a hug, which he returned with equal vigor. He noticed that he was trembling slightly, and he patted him firmly on the back.

Bilbo was the first to pull away. He looked at Thorin for a moment longer, his lips curled up into a half smile. Then, without another word, he turned and continued on in his usual rapid pace. Thorin stared after him fondly, waiting for him to walk far enough for his figure to be all but a speck in the horizon.

“He’ll have a _lot_ of questions thrust upon him.”

Thorin jumped slightly at the sound of an unfamiliar voice coming from behind him, but it was only to be expected. From his experience with Fheon and Elijah, he knew better than to dismiss the fleeting shadow that had been following him and Bilbo ever since they crossed the border.

Slowly, Thorin turned around.

A man with dark blond hair stood before him, garbed in the clothes Elijah had been wearing the first time Thorin laid eyes on him. On his back were a bow and a quiver of arrows, and on his hip, a sword. He had a roundish face, although not particularly fat. There was a hint of stubble above his lips and on his chin, trailing to the fronts of his ears.

He had grey eyes that held a certain kindness in them, something Thorin had often seen in Balin’s. But along with the kindness came a particular wisdom. Thorin noticed the several white strands in his hair.

He relaxed but otherwise kept a guarded look on his face.

“Are you Hiram?”

“Depends,” said the Ranger. “Who’re you?”

After a moment of contemplation, Thorin said, “I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King—”

“Under the Mountain,” the Ranger finished. A look of wonder crossed his face, and then surprise, and then he shook all these away to replace them with curiosity. “Yes, I’m Hiram… I—I never thought… should I—should I bow, or…?”

Thorin’s lip twitched. “There is no need.”

“Was your Quest completed then? Did you succeed?”

“Yes.”

Hiram nodded and stepped forward, glancing around. “Where are Fheon and Elijah?”

As soon as the words escaped his mouth, a hawk flew into view and perched onto one of the branches above his head. Its familiar red tail gave Thorin a deep sense of nostalgia, and he suddenly had trouble speaking.

“Fheon…” He took a deep breath. “She… she was slain in battle only a few days ago.”

“Ah…”

Hiram’s knees buckled visibly and he brought a hand up to his chest. He trudged to the left and came to lean against the tree Caligula was perched on. He swallowed visibly. “And Elijah?”

“When the dragon Smaug laid siege to the town of Esgaroth, Elijah was there with four of my kin. He did not make it out with them.” At the look of deep sorrow on Hiram’s face, Thorin sent him a sympathetic gaze. “If you must know, he died saving a young boy.”

Hiram only nodded. Above them, Caligula uttered a high-pitched keen. Thorin could almost see the sadness on the animal’s face. She flapped her wings twice and tilted her head right, then left. Thorin’s pony nickered softly and pawed at the ground. Thorin looked away from the red-tailed hawk and watched Hiram walk away from him, head bowed.

When Thorin did not follow immediately, the Ranger looked over his shoulder and at him. “Come, have a drink with me… only if you want to, of course.”

Thorin did not hesitate as much as he should have. “I’d like that.”

 

_And though where the road then takes me,_

_I cannot tell._

 

They sat on two separate logs across from each other. Thorin’s pony was safely tied to a nearby tree. In front of them were the remains of a campfire. If Thorin had to stay until nightfall, Hiram would no doubt have a flint and steel to light it with.

Once they were comfortable, with Hiram holding a flask of rum in one hand and stroking the hawk perched on his leg with the other, he nodded to Thorin. The look of despondency remained on his face.

After a moment of reluctance, Thorin opened his mouth and recounted their journey from the very beginning. He did not leave anything out—not the trolls’ ambush on them, or Rivendell, or their escape through Goblin-town, or the first attack of Azog (at this, the lines on Hiram’s face deepened), or the skin-changer Beorn, or Mirkwood. He told him everything.

When he finally reached his account of the events after Smaug’s demise, the Ranger leaned forward. Thorin continued on to explain the dragon-sickness that had once taken hold of him. He felt as if Hiram’s eyes were boring into him. Not a judgmental gaze, not even angry, but it was the look of trying to read somebody. Fheon used to have the same expression.

Thorin briefly wondered whether he should tell Hiram of his relationship with her, and then decided against it. However, he placed little hints here and there, trusting that the Ranger would understand. He simply did not want to explain his feelings aloud to someone he barely knew.

He ended his tale after telling of the feast. Hiram took a swig of his rum, just as he had after Thorin described the fates of Elijah and Fheon, as well as the funeral of the fallen dwarves.

“It is good that you burned them,” he said. “Souls are not meant to be trapped within the ground. That is what we Rangers believe... They were exceptional people.”

“Indeed, they were. And they spoke highly of you. I doubt they would have survived many of the skirmishes we had to go through without your training. You have my respect and my thanks.”

“I wasn’t their only teacher,” Hiram mumbled before taking another swig. After a while, he said, “And your bards will recount their lives?”

“The dwarves will remember them as if they were gods.”

“No!” the Ranger suddenly said. “Not gods. There is only one true god—Death. Remember them only as warriors… the best Rangers that have come to pass.” Thorin nodded. “It saddens me to know of their passing. They were the only survivors of their village, the last of the people of Evendim—but their deaths were honorable, I think. They would be proud of what they have accomplished.”

He then handed Thorin his flask. The rum swished around inside, eliciting a strangely calming sound. Thorin pulled open the lid tilted his head back. The liquid burned down his throat and warmed his chest. After several passes of the flask, his mind became hazy and distracted.

He thought he saw Fheon sitting beside Hiram, running a finger down Cali’s wing. Of course, when he blinked, she was gone.

It did not stop him from finishing the rest of the rum if only allow himself the fantasy of her being there with him. One last time.

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_We came all this way…_

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_But now comes the day…_

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_To bid you farewell._

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Thorin stood before a hall made of gold. He thought he had never seen anything like it. Within the walls were large alcoves where statues had been built—stone statues of men, elves, and dwarves alike. He looked up and found the ceiling to be constantly shifting, a moving portrait of a sunset sky.

Footsteps echoed down the hall and reached Thorin’s ears, followed by the sound of laughter. Two voices, one melodic and belonging to a woman, and the other an average deep of a male’s.

Excited and anxious in equal measure, Thorin dropped his gaze and saw two people standing at the end of the hall. Dark hair and copper skin.

Elijah’s face broke out into a wide grin. He elbowed the girl beside him.

Reading his lips, Thorin was able to make out what he said: “Talia, look.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar to Thorin, like something he had heard long ago. He held his breath.

And then Elijah was marching down the hall. He captured Thorin in a tight embrace, surprising the dwarf, but the sight of the two delighted Thorin so much that he could not argue. He returned Elijah’s hug, clasping his shoulders tightly, though he was the first to pull away. The grin on the Ranger’s face was still yet to disappear.

“She’s missed you,” he said, giving Thorin a slight push forward. The dwarf was then suddenly standing face to face with Fheon.

She was just as beautiful as he remembered.

No words were said between them. At the same split second, they stepped towards one another, closing the distance, and captured each other in a warm embrace.

Thorin buried his nose into her neck, breathing in the scent of her and reveling in the warmth she offered. He held her body close, nearly thinking that perhaps she was suffocating within his tight grip, but he heard no complaints from her. He could feel her warm breaths cascading over his shoulder, sending shivers down his spine.

“ _Amrâlimê_ ,” he breathed.

It was a fair minute before they pulled away, and when they did, Thorin was astonished to find her cheeks wet with tears. He had never seen her face so bright with happiness before. The sight made him want to crow at the sun.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

He answered her with a kiss, and her lips were just as soft, just as warm as he remembered them to be. He felt her tugging lightly at a braid of hair at the back of his head and pulled away slightly, only enough for him to be able to look at her face. “Oh,” she said, smiling.

“What?” he asked, a bit startled by the roughness of his voice.

He cleared his throat and she laughed—a loud, clear, ringing laugh. Thorin marveled at the sound. Still tugging at the braid, she said, “What took you so long?”

“I am not supposed to be here,” he replied, “But Mahal gave me his permission to stay with you, at least until you leave for the next world.”

“And Mandos only permitted me to stay here for this long because he took pity on us. He told me I could see you again, before I go.” A smile trailed up her lips, showing both joy and an underlying sadness. “It seems our sacrifices have paid off.”

Thorin grinned. “So it seems.”

He was about to pull her in for another kiss—one where he would lose himself a bit more—but then her eyes flickered behind him, and he gained a growing suspicion as to why. Pursing his lips, he turned his head and eyed the excited grin on Elijah’s face.

“I knew it!” said Elijah. “This calls for celebration! Follow me!” He jogged ahead of them and down the hall, turning a corner to the right.

Fheon waited for Thorin to regain his composure before following after Elijah. Once they were walking side by side, and by unspoken, mutual agreement again, they laced their fingers together. The sensation filled Thorin with such gladness. A sense of contentment flooded through him. Though he knew it would not last, for most things never did, he allowed himself all the bliss his body could take at that single moment.

Fheon’s shoulder brushed against his, and he felt that all was right in the world.


End file.
